12:08am -- Genesis

12:08 AM
Who am I?
I search inside,
I seek the source of heart and mind
And find that many questions rise.
It’s witching hours—
The spirit that devours me is waking:
Can you hear it whispering?
Feel it kicking into life?
Eight past midnight: Genesis,
I am a vision born in silence,
Chasing at the great unknown
Beyond these mystical horizons.
Even when I write,
When I project this voice divine
Like windows let in sunshine—
I’m feeling less than certain yet.
Who am I?
Am I some reflection?
Am I simply a given name?
Am I the courier of an ancient message?
These are only partly true—
Brontë, Shelley, Wordsworth too
Do live inside the fire I store.
I am in part these writers’ dreams.
Or rather a pristine reflection,
Human experience with a name.
Forged in part by years of change
Like waves that carve the ocean cliff.
I am a mission bound by fate:
Beseeched by seraphim unknown
To bear the sacred torch of hope
To brightens further when I go--
In dust I start to see my nature,
In the ashes of that flame, a phoenix 
Draped in burning passion
Breathes the hope of peace on Earth.
I ask if I am worthy,
If this fleshen vessel which I ride 
Deserves to carry on the dream
Of writers in their greatest stride.
For all my precious time on Earth,
I must honor my commitment:
Ensure the flame grows bright and strong
To guide the future human kind.
So another child with stars in their eyes
Will find between lines of poems 
A dream of unity, writer’s duty:
To carry high the flag of truth.
Dressed in light I see the answer
I had sought so many years,
I am a legend, a living tale,
The song of hope for all to hear.
In this I am immortalized,
Most importantly defined
In purpose: as a substrate
For the flame of human spirit.

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