Reach into my depths, I could,
pulling out pieces of fallen idols,
From contemporary to eccentric,
From cynics to realists, to romantics,
searching deeply to find my voice,
If indeed, I have acquired such a tone
as those who inspire my very thoughts,
Thoreau, Coleridge, Crane, Byron, Poe,
Frost, Hayden, Hughes, and Gibran,
Pertinent pioneers of published passion,
Experienced educators of endearment,
Do I dare follow their footsteps
imprinted in the wet cement path of time?
Or do I respectfully deny my destiny
out of fear of inferiority, for who am I?
Questions that echo in my mind,
punishing with each powerful pounding pulse,
No answer awakes within my heart,
nor does my mind mentor my vehement
in self doubt, "I am nothing, I am afraid",
Instead, in the midst of my crossroad,
coming to the rescue in the form of an apparition,
stirring in my soul are the words of Uncle Walt,
"O' Me, O' Life" he repeats with tears in his eyes,
"O' Me, O' Life" he says, wiping my fears away,
"Why do we live child?
Why do we wake and breathe
to prolong our existence on this corrupted orb?
What in your heart is the most alluring reward
for being chosen to walk amongst the grandfathers
of your expression? What is the most precious
opportunity that any man can have in the epic
piece of literature that existence has become?"
(Continued on Part 2, please post all comments on Part 2)