Could It Be?

Could it be that I'm sick of consumption?
Of eating and watching and reading.

Could it be that I'm tired of taking in this, that and the other, as a leech feeding on its host. Never thinking of giving life given to me.

Could it be that I'm tired of TV and radio and music?
Of eating away at the souls of others that hang in a garden waiting for me to consume its beauty, leaving in my wake the shards and slivers of their beauty weighed down by the grit and silt of my selfishness.

Could it be that the pillars and spires of what has been created have fallen to the seething ground of my belly and are now remnants and facades of former selves and dreams left to die on the roof of my mouth.

Could it be that I'm tired of being a man?

The countless times the womb of creation has been made naught in the knots of my hunger and the pangs of my hunger are but excuses to forage on the tendrils of woman, the harbingers of beauty and life and existence.

And they but art to me, and in the gaze of my savages they are to be had and seen and held. To be left as shadows and wisps of smoke that billow from the houses of my furnace.

Could it be that I'm tired of taking for myself and never giving of my self? Of never creating that which can be food to others? Instead only to ravage as locusts the golden substance, like honey, of those that host the muses.

Could it be that existence is but art to me, to masticate in the teeth of my time on this earth? And its fate to be a commodity left to wrinkle and rot in the shirt pocket of my loneliness and greed.

Could it be that I'm tired of being human? Gorging on the Gods of my needing like so many chalk marks on the ground that I skip into and out of, and into and out of, like a ravaged child playing Hop-Scotch in the park without so much as laughter to repay them.

Suppose I lived in golden houses of giving and that I fed and clothed strangers with both hands stretched far and wide and didn't care of the cuts and sores and cracks that became of them.

Suppose I spent my waking hours forging iron tools of selflessness and used them to pierce the tapestry of shame and regret, the shattered houses of glass of ones I've never known. And that I sought to be heroic in daily living and planted trees of love and giving the roots of which could live on eons from now.

Suppose I walked the streets of cities and hung little fragile lights of cheer and living on the doors and fences of strangers until the whole world was lit as the sun on this July day.

Suppose I spent the rest of my life evoking and engaging, building and creating so that the blind might see and the deaf might hear and dead might live and the sad might glee and the poor might be. Be in a world worth watching and reading and hearing and giving and seeing.

Could it be? Suppose it was. How would you be?