I, with my lips touched with coal and made clean
Enter your throne room and stand in my tears.
Just like a butterfly, timidly stretching,
I open the wings I have covered for years.
For this--this whole person I am down inside
Has been neglected beneath all the mire
I have let others throw, which sticks to my skin.
It hides all the words you alone shall inspire.
If all I can give for the rest of my life
Are the words that I write by your own pen and ink,
Then that is enough for my soul to exhale;
It will be enough for my passion to drink.
I stand in your throne room and offer myself
And all of the world I so love turns to dust.
And my words tumble out in a flurry of joy,
For I ought hold my tongue and not speak, but I must.
So then, sacrificed on an altar of wood
Goes the essence of self in its basest disguise.
But that's life on a page; existence in ink.
So the words I pour forth other days are all lies.
This-- this whole person that worships with pen
Begs you accept what her foolish heart brings:
This soiled and bruised lot of worthless attempts
Manifested in words: an unfolding of wings.
postscript
A basic attempt at a personal creed.