A Higher Calling

Each day is a discovery of sorts

In the lexicon of my limping way,

For example I have found that I have warts,

Oh, not the physical excrescences

But the encumbrances of thought that stay

My growth with their repetitive retorts.

There are lines so stale and hackneyed yet I smile

As old clichés that repeat themselves on end

Like worn out clothes sadly out of style,

Loss and painful reminiscences.

There is a part that does not bow or bend

Yet tolerates this nonsense for awhile.

I work alone with my beloved flowers

In a garden that is surely half divine

Turning the soil as God turns the hours.

I scan the stars and mark the distances

Looking for a symbol or a sign

To give my life to those angelic powers

That once appeared and lit devotion's flame.

I wait upon the word but I am numb

And cannot halt this world's most dangerous game,

For all our evils make allowances

And hide ourselves from what we must become.

A higher calling is our godlike claim.