The Pen's Selfless Self
Can words convey
The blood made rich
By toil and sorrow's demands
The spirit made alive
By reality's harsh weather
The heart made simple
By sifting apart passion's finery?
Is not breath's echo
But a mirror held high to reflect the all?
Are not life's smiles
But reflections of the one?
Is not a child's laughter
But resonance of joy's past lives?
What if the lyrical
Were to convey violence from within?
Would it protect us from violence without
Allowing perhaps the renaming of reality?
And how would that reality present itself?
Might it be love's enigma
Made understood
Provision to know someone else
After first suffering the knowledge of ourselves?
With pen in hand
Our scribbles plead knowing fresh language
Lightly touched upon the page
Affording dialectic for the seeker
While others cling passionately their memoire of ignorance
Perchance
Such words written
Are but mirror-shaped symbols
Visible only to the reader whose inner-light upon the page
Offers translation to the elusive self
Such vulnerability
Affords revelations to infinity's ebb and flow
Where endless beginnings
Provide timeless ripples connecting the child of our pen
With the warrior of our whispered words
Ron
budd