Thinking Myself Unborn
Thinking myself unborn
I can’t help
Wondering what the
State of non-being
Must be like
If opposites attract
And that’s a
Naturally occurring fact
Then perhaps it
Stands to reason
Darkness is out
Of season when
Light comes pouring
In like sweet
Summer shower rains
But not if
Existence doesn’t matter
And all is
Nothing more important
Than the unborn
Dreams of many
Not yet shattered
Such as the
Un-poetic poetry posing
Like masquerading mannequins
In storefront windows
And songs unsung
By the old
Masters who were
Never allowed to
Create something new
Because they too
Were left unborn
And every breath
They never breathed
Is still waiting
Patiently for them
In the airy
Skies where birds
Nest and fly
And the leaves
Bend and bow
Knowing strangely somehow
They’re not alone
And when fall
Comes calling them
Back once more
To the ground
Whence they came
They never complain
No need to
Explain to them
The reason for
Their own mortal
Worth which is
Nothing less than
Their miraculous living
Dying and gratifying
Moment of pure
Unimaginably timeless un-birth.
Copyright © Terrell Martin | Year Posted 2013
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