UNDER THE BULB

I live as a Hobbit in the thick of the population

and in my own dark basement

an incandescent bulb dangles over my head.

I perspire to the imaginings

and creations of my being through the stylus

captivating worlds that were once unknown.

I scribe for the Light, and Wisdom

hoping to captivate the silence of the Lamb

whose sacrifice is in the metal of words.

Sorcery of the Spirit

has a majestic twist when one knows God.

Why must we all believe

that what we consume we can regurgitate

back into the Fallopian tube

which leads back to our ancestry and solemn air?

If in my imaginings

the cart and horse takes me back to the Coliseum

where antiquities poetry filled men

as their wives

darned their clothes in hopes of freedom

then I would have been served by my articulations

that the divinity of poetry is held in regard.

I live in complete seclusion

because I do not trust the razors edge of mankind

and can feel the satanic ghost in all souls

as I fight to keep God within alive.

The legacy of words

shall move through time as a shape shifting idealism

falling upon eyes and ears

as an intellectual dagger finding its mark.

We that are seekers

must swim away from mainstream propagation

led by the Will of consumerism, and

define a purpose or ‘real value’ for our lives.

Wealth and power is not divine

for in its wake are the horrific legacies of mankind.

Poets who burn their minds

under the light of an electrical line with purpose

shall glow in men and in women

and all the children will hurry to read the words.

As Christ died upon the Cross

we poets, Believers or not

should sacrifice unto our humanities the Light

that opens the Way for excellence.

A society built on Wisdom

is worth the divorce of our material reasoning

and the continued write, under the bulb.