Alive

Its cold and its late,
And a very long night;
In the swirl,
And the mist
Of yet another day,
I whirl and scribble,
Move and obey,
Change and grow and love.

But of this all,
One thing alone stays sincere;
That innermost bit of me
That sways to the silence,
And is awed by the shimmering moon.

That part takes its form,
By the sides of many roads,
In a poem,
A long, drawn out,
And never finished poem
That weary authors take comfort to write.

Through many perils and joys,
The solemn delight I find
In the midnights and amber-dew sunrise;
The ink scribbled scrawls
In pockets and screens,
Are where the reminders that I'm still alive dwells,
A separate entity from the rest,
Existing as human;
Poetry is where I find the comfort of home.

My humanity is born of my blood.
My blood is renewed by the Earth and the Sky.
Thus, the world takes a taste of my life, and I shout,
"I'm alive!  I'm alive!  I'm alive!"