The Targeted One
Poet Gods from up and yonder,
circling the earth whilst they wonder,
with verse and rhyme and starry eyes,
sending out scouts and cultured spies,
looking down at me, a helpless target,
a man with an empty mind to beget,
a man with a place in his open heart,
to light a torch from one little spark,
a motivation from a higher authority,
and further up to the highest hierarchy,
a God of wisdom and rhyme and prose,
who saw me, a man of whom he chose,
with an empty page and an empty mind,
with room for words of the poetic kind.
I wrote his words with another hand,
from another mind from another land,
a climb with yet my feet still on the ground,
me a new man as the prose swirled around.
As the skies opened up I saw the night
riddled with arrows and fire before my sight.
As the universe unfastened to let me in,
I saw it breathing as I rode with the wind.
I wrote something that I call mine,
or maybe I was just a targeted find.
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