An Anthem

I don't know. I actually do not know.

They call it pity for a reason,

for it is a pit out of which we climb 

whilst holding onto either politics or art,

recalling the footing that we lost.

That is, 

the privation of a steady rhythm 

in either beats or words.

Beating words.

Those that we stumble over,

or use to grip with either 

red feet or red hands,

for we're either standing

or painting those who are.

And I am an advocate for art,

as much as I am an impression

of the duties I perform. 

But I cannot condemn nor absolve 

a song for being voiceless 

as much as it is anthemic;

There are many who, insipid, see:

the torch within His hymns. And,

after all, I am a player in His game,

and within each space I am confined

to the (dis)order-- the command--

of its extent, for example:

"move forward three steps," or, 

"aspire to ascend." 

And speaking of ascension,

I will iterate the resonating vow of prior:

to never recommend a belief in such a system 

that would suppose an 'up here' and a 

'down there,' for I am merely 

a playing piece in a game to be played.

And so my prayers are ululations,

made to profane flickers of flames,

as opposed to the beatific refines 

of an incandescent, divine,

and consensual frame of mind.

And I will be calling not for redemption

or salvation of a soul,

but instead for the beating of my drum,

and the percolating of my poetry. Yes.

You see, I do not ask to bleed it all,

these rhythms of the heart,

nor to win (that is, ascend), but merely 

to taste the thumping

made by the playing 

that resides within the game.