Retrace the line a little to the left.
Deep breath, the stretch of rubbery debris.
You see the new creation taking shape.
Now wave your hands and brush the past away.

You never need an artist for the art.
The part is played by those who wrote the lines.
Sometimes the little ditty in your head
Is tune instead to bring the hope to life.

Stand tall. Breath free.
No one but you can tell
If this is all there is -
And heaven’s door.
Or if some window
Lets you jump toward Hell.

Emerson was right, of course.
Each friendship and each contract
Steals a tiny piece of freedom
From the parchment each of us
Is blessed by birth to carry.

Yet, humans to the core are social.
Creatures in a nature that abhors
A vacuum. Our conspiracy
Negotiates with captors,
Hoping always to relinquish
Loneliness instead of character.

The artistry and artifice of living
Boils down to strategy of highest skill.
How does the one self-sacrifice
To serve the greatest good
Without imprisonment and dissolution
Of one’s humanity?

Throw salt or caution to the wind.
In fact, just throw them both,
And brace yourself for things unknown-
Including those beyond belief.

Peek out between your fingers.
Glimpse the future past your thumb.
You need not tell a single soul
What you suspect much more than hope.

The bogeyman is revelation –
Could you be meant to find the sky
Is never blue in any realm?
What if you’re just gone when you die?

The rabbit’s foot is lucky,
If you’re not the limping hare.
Be not afraid of what you’re sure
Can suffocate the fear.

If we distill indoctrination
Out of spirit and of faith,
Swilling only what is truth,
Sipping Love, Eschewing Hate?

We may all imbibe the warmth,
Go with the grain, and feel the taste,
As it flows through the liquid whole
Of not just us, but all of space.

For dogma will not save a soul.
A synod knows where man resides.
If God has means to consecrate,
The blessing we know not besides?

It does not come from sacred books,
Nor will we summon grace from creeds.
The mystery of the divine
Reveals itself in words and deeds.

The Chronicle of Man may lack detail
To indicate how every human hand
Contributes to a tiny grain of sand
Which lands upon the arc of justice’ scale.

Each youngster who takes turns upon the slide,
Or comforts fallen playmates on the ground;
The man of means who reaches calmly down
To lift his neighbor and dust off his pride –

These nameless, unremembered acts have pitch
Which hum with constant tone and clarity.
They thrive on faith, and hope, and charity –
Their singing makes the poorest, warmly rich.

Of course, some precious few wield blocks and stones
So dense they rock the balance and cry out
For justice past the shadow of the doubt.
Their strength exhumes the deepest buried bones.

Yet most of us will never know our part.
The microscopic bit we cast upon
The plate that bears the bulk of fairness won.
We know only to walk our path with heart.

The moral thus reverberates with time.
Humanity has progeny unborn.
This unrelenting cavalcade walks on
And drops its bit of truth while freedom chimes.