The Bard's Plea

Either/or constitutes prophet v.s. poet; it's a sticky situation.

Sunlight in photons, a dirty display,
couldn't get the dust off the cupboard just right,
standing on dirty ground, paper in the trash,
all of the past surrounded in a cloud.
Nicotine pollutants haphazard to the atmosphere,
from the altar of the sky viewing the ground,
fragmented, memories lapse like the waves,
pieces of a jigsaw revealed as the days go by;
we see through the deceit of hours passed,
and beyond the desert in the fruitful plains
I press myself harshly with a question in my mouth;
"Am I a son of Babylon?"
Between each moment the center is revealed,
a love of Jah beneath the comfort of prose,
poetry of great men, testaments to history's honor,
but is it pride that will strike me in the grave?
Fretless they assure of an unnamed fear,
delusion as great as the darkness which enshrouds,
while beneath the Tree of Life which soothes us with its shade
a message comes forth borne by the archangels of lore,
"You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
  you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
  My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;
  a broken and contrite heart
  you, God, will not despise."
We've made the leap, the past is a hurdle that must be overcome,
while I watch my hand offer sickness
and the bitter, pallid winter settle in.

The shaking of a pen and malnutritioned hands,
contrasts of aristocratic bards and the starving sets
that have me blessed to be even reincarnated at all.
The veil across our face dims the light,
here is the the truth of brightness in verse,
rhymes sparingly dealt and a message conveyed;
the struggle of milled grain for souls,
substance provided in the arc of our Lord,
these lies, circles and linear planes,
it is so simple the genius of our name.
Like oral traditions and folklore alight
I exist more a poem than a canvas,
more a person than a product of my will,
material is not my medium but rather
the way I lay these words to express
a shortness of breath and a lover's desire,
all these simple pleasures a breaching on my soul.
Is peace to be found in starving prophets
and the weathered wisdom of the homeless?
These creations bear witness as genuine as swan and precious as a pearl
while I question boldly my right
to live in expectancy of truth and beauty,
ambition the sea level we drown beneath;
is it rising, is it flowing? Which earthly, ethereal way are we rowing?
Help me Lord, for I am lost without you,
and if it is swine I cast my eternal lot before
please have the fairest judgment on our souls.

Where is the balance that my heart desires?
The mocking crowds offer no solace,
as the morning dreams stir me in my sleep.
Awake, a smile peals across my face;
sunshine and the birds' songs are real.

Author's Note

Content, punctuation and and how to improve the flow (because there are some parts that feel disjointed) would be greatly, greatly appreciated. Also, I'm holding the way I broke up stanzas in general in question until I come to peace with how I feel about this one. This is one of the longest poems I've ever written and I feel there's definitely some room for improvement, but I can't figure out quite where yet. Overall, I enjoyed this one a lot and that's why I decided to post it. All comments and constructive criticisms are greatly welcomed and appreciated, but with that said I hope you enjoy this work as well!