What was I made for?

As I lay here
In my peaceful chamber
With my tired bones
gasping for the air of the future
I’m reminded by hunger
To create, to feel, to live
to speak in my old language

But what can I say? 
With this slow pulse,
with this foggy breath.
What can I say? 
and yet
by impulse, by need, by hunger again
a hunger that is beyond me
I’m moved to create.

What if I’m never discovered?
What if I’m buried with my art? 
Rotting with myself, my creations becoming dust
Never delivering the message.
What message?
Never understood or praised
Never to be seen
And yet

Even with fire reflecting in my eyes,
Even hearing the trumpets in the sky
Even as I’m rotting, lonely, peaceful
I’m moved to create.

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