it’s all there is,
flowing through blood of man,
outward from heart as far as human eye can see,
giving purpose to even the mundane,
and wrapping up all meaning unto itself.
further questions bog down
in pitiful exasperations,
or futile conversations,
filled with grandiose persuasions,
on philosophy message boards
repeated a thousand different ways
that there must be more
or there must be less.
poets of the Poet
painters of the Painter,
all of us,
poets, painters,
creators of the Creator,
flowing through blood of man.
–
