And what of our Nature?
What can we truly say of it?
Certainly we are more than dust.
Certainly more than the baser instincts.
And certainly deeper than inspiration.
Certainly we are more real than
Cheap exhortations to piousness.
But in the dark of night
Stumbling in blindness
We need the lamp that brings light.
It is elegant in its wholeness.
The ceramic bowl made from clay,
The oil contained within,
Squeezed from a fissure of the earth,
Or rendered from the blubber
Of the deepest diver.
Then the wick,
That connects the dark reservoir
With the apex.
Here, the mystery of the sparking heavens
Leaps to ignite the saturated tip.
Suddenly the flame is there
And the light chases the darkness
Into the shadows.
Are we not just this?
Bearers of the light?
The celestial arc of stars
Meets in the maw
Of a dark and fertile place.
There is nothing left to do
But squeeze the slippery fuel
From its ancient rendered flesh
And light the way forward....
We are restless mariners
Captives of our dreams
Sailing for the far horizon.