There are no words the angel told me to write.
What I write is my own.
There are no dreams destiny fed me.
What I imagine is not so mysterious.
There are no wonders that have ever come from my fingertips.
What magic I have ever seen has come from above.
And yet, always has hope been in my heart.
There are to be none who will write of me,
or sing songs to my name,
there are to be none who will think of me
that I was great in my time,
but that does not cease my weaving my meager inspirations
into these patchwork technicolors;
none but death shall stop my good writing hand.
Suffice it for the moment
that I have found these few aluminum words;
suffice it for the hour
that this poem completes its own course;
suffice it for the day
I have done with the sunlight a little of its justice done on me;
tonight may I sleep well with what today I have made.
This world, I think, remembers
few of who are worthy of remembering.
I imagine how many have come and gone
profitable of the seasons given them.
I dream of words no one ever wrote down
that forked lightning in their time.
And magic? That we are given the chance: such a wonder.
