What Is Man?

I am not unlike the words of a spoken-word artiste;
I am a work of art, and not a simple one at that…
But what I truly am, I cannot confidently guess.

I am what I cannot completely define;
The product of a Master beyond constraints;
A thought from a creative Mind without confines
And birthed in Love from Hands perfect for every work.

I am His breath trapped in a mould;
A divine spark merged with an earthen work of art
In a mystery beyond unravelling though born in Light.

I am a painting, a sculpture, a vessel, a script;
A song inspired, an unmatched poem, a unit of beauty;
Made of form and structure, layers and shades;
Flowing curves and well-defined features;
An incomparably complex combination of masterpieces
Existing in the intersection of intertwined perspectives and dimensions.

I am sounds and songs, notes and beats…
A melody that escapes from the womb of wonders.
From depths unknown I pull out
The enchanting strum of strings
The dull thump of heavy drums
The pitchy clashing cry of cymbals
The triumphant roar of trumpets
The haunting wailing calls of pipes;
Major lifts and minor falls – ever-changing progressions
Stuck in the prison of rhythm.

I am contradictions and paradoxes,
A product of more mystery than knowledge
And unfortunately, more prone to folly than wisdom.

I am the seat of perversions –
Host to the entrance to the bottomless abyss of desires.
I want what I want and take what I get,
But it will all never be enough.

I am a craving, a wanting, a needing –
Always looking toward that which is just beyond reach.
If wishes were horses there wouldn’t be enough room on earth for my herd.

I am a battlefield
Of information and emotions –
Crafty little things beyond reasoning with –
Priding myself on one, yet more often than not, succumbing to the other.

I am shackles – broken shackles and ceaseless struggles;
The embodiment of dichotomies in tenuous equilibrium:
Fragile, yet eager to break things;
Sensitive, yet quick to inflict hurts;
Lost, but unaware and set on leading;
Desiring to be trusted, yet fickle as a spark;
Enamored with virtues, yet slave to vices –
Hope and despair seemingly perpetually strung along.

I am a prisoner of time, lost in yearning
Either for the freedom of eternity or the bliss of oblivion;
Stuck in ignorance yet addicted to foolishness;
Deaf to wisdom, blind to light – bright or dim;
Struck by suffering yet immune to correction.

I am possibilities and probabilities engaged –
Sometimes held hostage, sometimes a willing captive;
Yearning for freedom, while building my own prisons.

I am ambition mortally defined – inherently flawed;
Set on leaving my mark on a flowing canvas,
Refusing to accept the independence of the river of time.

I am spirit, soul, and body – mystery, imagination, and desire;
Ruled by affections and convictions
Sometimes beyond reason or control,
But ultimately defined by the chain of choices made.

I am more than meets the eye –
Much more than can be accurately weighed by the ordinary mind:
I am the uncanny agglomeration of the masterpiece I was made to be
And the mess I made myself into;
A salvaged priceless piece of art once lost,
Being restored – completely – in bits and pieces,
Progressing into perfection.

#Psalms 8:4
#Psalms 139:13-16

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