The World Eclectic

Time slows when I'm writing, The clocks slow down their flight. It's a world of wrongs I'm righting, For those too weak to fight. Space grows when I'm thinking Of the tricks to get inside; Though Titanic may be sinking, I can sneak on one last ride. Death suspends for a little while His cold and bottomless touch, And in the end I may see a smile Again, that I missed so much. The world blooms with a promise That was made so long ago, And to which we all pay homage: That thought makes the universe go It only took one fertile thought, Brimming with possibility, From which an entire world was got- Beyond incredibility. If you thought for a million years, Your thought could not come close, To the pregnant thought that birthed us all, From some indefinable host. Try to imagine the depth of mind Could create, with only will, And you will find there, your own kind With the power to create, still. Creation is a holy thing, Sometimes left to myths and gods; But it's the hallmark of a man, Made up of sweat and sod. We are the little universe, Creates from deep inside, A microcosm of the whole Eclectic, far and wide. No one knows from where we draw The visions, that we hold; No one knows the father That we came from, bright and bold. No one believes in magic, In this ancient, jaded place: But the real creators see it- In the newborn baby's face. Just allow your gaze rest there, If only for a while, And soon enough you’ll see it- Direct from god- a smile.