Saintly Thoughts

A Poor Poet's Prayer

I wish that I could be a philosopher or a wise man.  I admire them their clever elaborate systems (though I admit that they leave me cold and unsatisfied).  How many times have I sat down to begin a systematic work of philosophy, only to be undone by my own lack of clarity, commitment, and patience (not to mention lack of intellect)?  If I could, I would be another Kant or a Wittgenstein or an Aristotle, but as it is I can claim nothing more than that I am a poet (and a poor one at that).  At times, certain thoughts and ideas may spill over me, and it is all I can do to set them to paper before they evaporate and return, formless, into the inner reaches of my subconscious (of my soul).  Anything that I write has one time or another visited me in my dreams and unsettled my sleep.  That is why I must write, in the hopes that I may trap these daemons under pen and ink, never to trouble my sleep again.  I can think of no finer existence than that of the simple man--he who has not been seduced by systems and letters.  Simple men and women can be monsters, but they are never monsters of their own creation.  Being simple, they have not the material stuff of hate and deviousness, but are highly susceptible to being filled by others [yet the simple may have a wisdom the wise have not known).  It is men such as me, this poor poet, who are full of those things which, if allowed to grow, hatch into giant dragons which may seduce the simple and plunder the earth.  I know what lies in the heart of the most wretched and terrible of human sinners because that same impulse knocks at my heart.  If I were born in a different age, or to different parents, I may have become such a man...a bane upon my fellows.  As it is, I have the tools to keep the hounds of hell at bay, yet nothing much more.  What little else I had has been emptied, and there is nothing else left to fill the cauldrons of my soul.  Might I still be a blessing (might I still be blessed)?  May my poor poetry lift the soul of another?  I know not the path to God, only His symbols (else, I would speak of them here).  May The Lord give me strength and time to fill my poetry with His symbols, that those who are hurting may find comfort in them, and those who are wiser than I may unlock the keys to some new insight that may turn the age, and overcome those putrid flies which gnaw at the heart of modern men and women.  May I play the midwife to one greater than I.