Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2010
In the instant of creation
I am a channel of pure light,
translating truth from some wordless space,
forming the formless
and joyful at the privilege.

But then,
the thing clutches me
and demands attention
like an ill-bred child.

"Look, just go!" I beg it,
and off it scampers
but keeps returning
with news
of its own imperfection
and my poor craftsmanship.

Then it crouches on my shoulder
as I inspect the work of others
and whispers triumph at their failures
and hatred at success.

Until I start to fear beauty,
***** my eyes shut
and cover my ears, ashamed
of what it breeds in me.
- From Also Available Free
Alan McClure
Written by
Alan McClure
839
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems