Live

I once knew a man
Who only wrote when he was Inspired.
The pen was not a common thing in his hand.
It was more like a drawing of blood,
It cost him his very life-force.

First he had to find a vein.
Let himself be tied up,
Watch the vessel rise,
Will it into bigness.

Then came the puncture.
He couldn't watch.
He couldn't bear to see the tearing of a hole in flesh.
He grit his teeth and let the moment have its fill.

This man couldn't write often,
By definition.
And yet when he did, it was Life for all,
And it was like the only writing in the world.

He wanted to achieve something with it.
He wanted more than to express a feeling.
He wanted to Give a nourishment.
Feed a hunger..
He always wrote for others.

His addiction was Love.
This man still writes today.

He writes through me,
And he writes through you.

We are his poem.
His life-force.

We have but one duty,
One universal obligation.
To be One with each other
As he was one with the Father.

He bled that we might live for one another,
And through the outpouring of our lives,
We might know one another for the first time
As we are known.

This man said that we would do greater works than he
Through our unity.
Let us love, forgive, forget, live for the highest things.
And bleed with him,

In the spirit of Robert the Bruce,
Who said "You bled with Wallace, now bleed with me!"
We saw the Passion of the Lord of life as he died.
And we can never forget it.
We saw it with our own eyes.

I saw it this morning as I awoke full of wants and needs.
The entry of a new moment
Onto the scene of my life.

Once he told me, "Go, and sin no more,"
And from then on I knew that I could not focus on the blood.