Exquisite Gift
Creativity,
Having no other form of subjective consciousness
To rival its exquisite gift,
Is, in my exceedingly poetic estimation,
The beginning, Eden, Mount Helicon, heaven, eternity.
Can you begin to conceive being,
Without fundamental instincts and emotions
Capable of eliciting songs, longings for love,
Without an imagination that can dream, soar,
Without a tongue born to elaborate vocabularies?
I can't, not even in my emptiest meditations.
All I know, with absolute conviction,
Is that, predestined to die of a predictable malady
Or fate yet inexplicable to nature, I exist.
Alive inside my artistic sensibility, I am forever.
01/27/09 - (3)
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