By Charles Sapp II
Attention spanning great distances,
time suspended and put on curfew.
The traffic of thoughts,
moving freely—onto virgin paper,
awaiting the vandalism of a masterpiece;
or is it when untouched?
The pen bleeds ink
as the oil from my palm saturates
the pulpous fibers of this fine parchment;
providing a personal touch to this poem.
The uncaptured rain
the recycled air, purified.
This art form is the cleansing of humanities filth,
while extracting the beauty;
as centerpieces –
as monuments.
To conserve what could be,
only if I and we—
move,
like the animate objects we are;
moved by emotions and experiences.
The need
to be plugged in.
Into what?
It doesn't matter as long as it revalidates my purpose.
Is there purpose?
Must be; I continue to strive and become closer.
Closer to what?
Closer to the high frequency of energy that permeates
my being; awake or at rest.
I mimic the Sun
and wish to give light,
by submitting myself to the source of pure energy;
feeding every need
and seeding the desires of all encountered.
February 19, 2008
Purpose - Poem
