I am
Spilling
Out of myself.

I am
Of the greatest kind
Of human being -
Emptied.
Though only of self
And,
Thankfully,
Never in practice.

Am I
Only made human in time?
Death is the definition
Of living.
Otherwise
I am made of blessed scraps
Of Divinity's table.
Which,
From my fingertips,
Fall to the earth
In a blanket of angel mist
And words -

Spilling from my
Soul
As God
So carefully
Spilled
Dust upon oblivion
To create Adam.

Out of my heart
Beats the fires
Of my unspeakable passions.
Scorching images
Of desire
Seeping from this soft,
Human
Exterior.

Of my eyes,
They've withered away.
By the liquid nectar
Of my sorrows,
I am blinded.
Though only of reality
And,
Thankfully,
Never of optimism.

My self
As a whole
Emptied into
Whatsoever is beyond
The Great Barrier;
Fragments of legend
And air.

I am
Spilling
Out of myself.