The Messenger

While we wait for the messenger to arrive

We have the gift of being alive

Books and tongues are no substitute

A carefully operated mind can easily refute

The message is for those on this land

Even with maps we are lost, wishing for a helping hand

We have forgotten that gift, of life

It’s been sliced, by time’s precise knife

Into the past and future, there is no fixed address

We’re never found, the messenger would rather not guess

The mind will quickly say we are away

It remains sharp, we are softened and seek an easy way

Those who’ve received the message will gladly share

It must stick before words melt into the air

If we can’t hold onto life, what are we clutching?

The messenger is here and waiting, for us to be done searching