Between

Between ourselves and the Gods
there is a void
so wide, so drop-off deep-
mountains on mountain stacked
cannot succeed to fill.

Between ourselves and the Truth
there interpose
an obfuscating maze-
an all-but-endless hall
called the material.

Between ourselves and the poem
there is a page
so blank, so white so long
that glyph by glyph
we undertake to scrawl.

Labor, Art, Grace-
these are the corkscrews given
all men by Dominion
to pick and plunder these
august mysteries.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!