help me to write my masterpiece now
in these waning days and nights of my history.
Words to stir hearts and souls empty
from feasting on the bread of the world—
left hungry, famished, for the bread of life.
Inspire me God, to fill cups empty so long,
with refreshing verses from the waters
of your grace.
I have failed in my duties to you, Lord.
Failed also in my duties to humanity,
and to myself. Too long, the troubadour,
dancing to the melodies and rhythms of perdition.
Flaunting my arts in the streets of oblivion,
writing words to feed my ravenous vanity—
mere crumbs, like dust, blown to the wind.
Nourishing, inspiring, no one.
The hobo poet, wandering alleyways of life,
telling myself so many lies which only served
to prolong the inevitable cause and effect of my folly—
my fall and demise from the heights of self-importance,
into the deep, dark, barren valley of reality. Which
caused me to pursue a thousand roads leading nowhere
in my desperate attempts to find in some way,
how to live again.
Indeed, what good is it to gain all the world offers,
and neglect the soul—harm all that is good in us?
Those words you spoke so long ago, dear Lord of mercy,
have haunted many of my days and nights thru the years.
And yet, not enough to keep my heart true to you, to
keep me on the road of light, that smooth, safe road,
when the few times I've traveled it, led me to peace.
Led me back to you.
The lights of this world are dimming, the long night
of traveling, nearing its end. I am so weary Lord. For
I have labored and schemed so many years of history.
The troubadour dances no more. The hobo poet has tired
of wandering. My soul now hungers for the true bread of life.
So, dear gracious Lord, help me to write my masterpiece,
now in the late season, in this purging winter of learning,
then perhaps I may yet finish the journey well.
