je suis...

When men pretend to greatness
as if to be gods, they diminish life
we do not worship the smoking gun
we simply fear it and dread
the fracture of reason that stands behind it.

There is a poetry of grief, and it sounds dull chords
like muffled drums and slow steps to fresh mounds;
dust of stars are we, and like them, we burn bright and die.

We have fire within and send out our special light;
it is life - a glory and celebration.
It is the precious gift and we know it
by sounds of laughter when we hold it, and the
slow roll of tears when it passes.

When men pretend to greatness
and wear the mantles they make
the petty godliness they create...they can only
make life vanish; they become invisible to the eyes
for we forget fear, it moves away
like the burn of sun through clouds.

We forget makers of fear...they are as the dust
of forgotten dust; we remember the joys
and the gifts of happiness.
Fear flies in an eye blink, it does not keep us;
for We are eternally bound
 to those we Love