What is this hole in my heart
This eternal discontentedness
That makes me create
This desire for transcendence
Why this demand for beauty
Seeking and shedding dead weight
Squeezing blood from rocks
And riding out the quake
How can I substitute wonder
Letting reason subjugate
Better to be butchered by grandeur
While spilling precious ink
If I could but meet the Author
And gaze into the eyes of wisdom
I could cease to curse my fate
And this holy thorn in my side
I would not berate
But embrace this pain
This thirsty soul
For this portion is Your pen
And I—Your poem
This composition of Yours
I will elevate
You are finer
Than the knife
I thrive under
You are greater
Than the space
I occupy