I Am, But an Instrument Basking in the after-glow of a masterpiece, Littered in the wreckage of post celebration, Rays inching across the floor, reach me too soon, Now the loathsome cleansing routine has begun. Rinse out the memories of passion and expression, Grand poor choices, detours back to the rough, Amazing crescendos, glorious residue of fortunate mistakes, Teased arrogance that inflated with each triumph. Wring out my swollen ego of righteousness, Dry off the webbed beads of a protected soul, My true self reemerges from the haze and illusion, Let the air of humility rejuvenate my place in the fold, Sitting stoic among the mundane and unattractive, Placed in line with other stained forms, nicked and worn. Built to withstand the stress of strain and prolonged fatigue, Counseled not to stray, but to gracefully adorn. When held within great hands my purpose becomes grand. What ensues can mesmerize with vivid detail. Capturing the conflicts and injustice that clutter free will, Resolve is etched out to reveal the truth among the frail. Misty comfort engulfs the one daring to contemplate. Looming forth divine, a compassionate portrait. Questions, quieted, blessings instead emerge into view. Peace draws out color from the bleached and long lost spirit. When the end comes, what experiences will dominate? The muck and celebration or the soul revealed and fed? I am, but an instrument, flawed and reluctant. My greatest hour was when I allowed myself to be humbly led. Paul Fresco Fort Worth, Texas Copyright �2002 Paul Fresco All rights reserved. BACK E-MAIL |