Let there be a holy kind of noise;
Let the truth be set on fire in words.
May the meditations of my heart
Be pleasing in thy sight, my patient Lord
Of hosts and hearts and headstrong, bloodwashed saints,
And let the joy of taking breath ring out.
No lifeless clay beneath my hands rests still
When joy of imitation brings about
My ransom--my whole passion wrought in words
And clay and paint and music--all for you.
The noise has reached its fever pitch: it drops
And sets on fire the truth and breaks in two.
And this is who I am--apprenticed muse
Snatching catastrophic art from air,
And while your joyous laughter, urging on,
Breathes life, I imitate you, unaware.
postscript
Art is inevitable. We were made to create, and the force of it is irresistible.