called by name

a broken bottle buried under
a mound of mud
dug
out by hands hardened, worked, full of calluses
and lacerations
from all the excavations
creating new creations
filling every nation
with branded bell jars of beautiful breathing bodies
fresh faces
polished and pure
washed of all dirt
no longer a broken bottle
but a song
sung
in perfect pitch
knowing that
there's a crack in everything - that's how the light gets in

but we watch our watches and wait for the inspiration to create
something worthy of time
either yours or mine
but nothing seems to rhyme
or flow as easily as it would if we weren't so severely damaged
flawed lazy selfish dumb
hungry for what never comes
because we fill ourselves with what won't sustain
from temporary treasure we don't
refrain
our best and worst
both look the same
through our eyes all we see is
[LAME]
transfixed upon the mound of mud
we still expect hides all the shame
of our brokenness and blame
while we make our mends
with the devil we all tote within
and do our work
to create something worthy of this life we've been given
art that motivates
music that resonates
words that procreate
but the one we should be doing
all of this for
says:
forget your perfect offering


(Inspired by Leonard Cohen's "Anthem" from his 1992 album The Future)