Lift me past
the cliches of life.
Those proto-ordinary word-images
that stick in your hand
as it strives to write original words
and lines of words that form and flow
like no other words or lines written.
But who am I to think
could possibly be new
in this world that goes on and on–
past us and always after us?
Who are we, as word-bound bards,
to think anything is special
because it is our time
to rise and fall,
like the sun and moon,
which have done the same,
without our help,
for millenia before us,
and will likely for millenia after us?
Who are we to postulate
we are anything more
than God ever intended
from the very beginning, and
I mean the beginning of all beginnings
when all things, including God, began?
Is there any wonder
I should want to rise above
the cliches forever grabbing truth
from the hands of ordinary people such as us,
who live and die,
like the cliches we spew about us,
hoping we can be different?