Some nights, when I close my eyes,
Standing beneath the stars of forever,
I am taken up to fly to distant places,
Soaring through and between the planets.
Let it not be said that we are rooted,
Creatures held upon the soil of earth,
We are but the remnants of what was,
The cause of what is to be, someday.
There, point your finger toward the night,
Reach out your hand and grasp the heavens,
Inhale the scent of destiny’s purpose,
Understand that you are the mere shadow,
That fleshy shadow that has only tasted
The minutest particle of the infinite feast,
Unable to dine at the table of creation,
Until you come to believe its possibilities.
© 2011, Donald Harbour