For years he had thought
that God belonged to a secret society
one he could never be part of,
notwithstanding, he imagined himself a mystic,
In the prime of life, as sometimes happens,
rats began to gnaw at anchor ropes,
he began to drift away from his true self.
He became that most deluded of all beings –
a follower and a seeker.
Fortunately for his sanity,
he became a weaver of words,
a thought painter, an image maker,
a sort of poet.
His work was to be this enactment
upon a Scrabble board
a stage where sacred symbols were wrought
from alphabet salads.
If he were speaking now
he would tell you
that though he picked the letters.
and arranged the words
he is certain sure that any concept of
God-game game he played
always pointed back at himself,
and so, he found his truth again.>center>
I am but one now, and not another prior
Never before have I trodden this path
Never before have I lived this hour
I need not do the history or the math
If my history consisted of endless days
If my distant past revealed a different me
I'd be, not human, but divine and amazed
I would not need a savior to set me free
My purpose, built-in with destiny; set with attention
My future status will be far more than 'An also ran'
My origin was formed with precision and intention
Moreover, my past was not happenstance but planned
To a past that never was will I not CLING
My existence is not a multiple-choice test
Never upon a fantasy will I place my being
But upon much surer promises, I will rest
So, with certainty, I CLING to the image-maker
I am neither puzzled by fate nor by the lottery
I was created by one who is a promise keeper
I am nestled in the bosom of the Almighty
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