Ink and Irrelevance

Ink conveys neither life nor death

Blood suggests neither man nor woman

Breath itself tells me very little

About who you are, and more importantly

Why

The object of this life we’ve been given

Is not to accumulate or accomplish

But to prepare and introspect

On what’s been done, is happening

And will be done, either by us or others

The heart doesn’t start beating

Until it has a purpose

The lungs won’t start taking in the air

Until they’re told they are meant to sustain

Blood flows not from heart to brain

Until there is someone to hold and nurture

So too we are, writers, conveying the deep

And promising readers explanations

Of what the common man cannot comprehend

It is up to us to demonstrate the subtle calls

Of a world gone awry, and through words

Restore the order that keeps us moving

Onward is the path we lay, the words come

Night and day, and though the construction

Can tire, consume, and even weigh heavy

The thought of more dying because of us

Unwillingness to serve our fellow man

The cause motivates to inspire, create

And reimagine everything we have seen

I will see the afterlife

Not because I’m guaranteed heaven

But because I’ve created it here

And I know whoever inherits it will be full

Of all the peace I left in my stead

My greatest achievement as a writer

Is not volumes, full bookshelves, and contracts

But the smiles of happy children

The sunrise on a grateful universe

For keeping the balance it desperately needs

To ensure the survival of life