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
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

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