Concerning Humans - A Poem by Beck

Concerning Humans:

Ever flowing is the pen, 

Pouring one's heart onto the page

Like water down a mountainside. 

Then the rivers pens have made, 

Form rapids, ponds, lakes, 

And oceans, from a simple swipe. 

In each pen stroke lies a story,

A trial, a journey, a quest

From mountaintop to riverbed,

From A to B through a canyon,

To find a seat at the base of a tree

And pause. 

Each stroke of ink, a gust of wind

That conjures the waves we ride to shore

For drip castles and conversation. 

The wind that shakes the trees in the dead of night,

And chills us to the bone. 

The wind that let me fly. 

The light rolls like water

And cascades through thickets of trees.

I cursed it once, while breaking up the earth

With pickaxe and crowbar, ringing.

Then I begged for it while the rain poured down

As I splintered roots and let the rivers run. 

The earth waits like a blank page,

Daring me to create a peace.

The ink flows in my footsteps, telling the tales 

Of the fellowship that climbed Mount Doom, 

And the triumph of an uncertain man

Who discovered he could make mountains kneel. 

The fire warms like a sleeping bag,

Enveloping me in the coldest times. 

Nearby we sat with Sticks and Rocks,

We roasted nuts and burned the holy books

That told us how to live, for we were on our way.

Trailblazing. 

When the earth is filled with words

And the stories have been told,

Of uncooked soups and raunchy songs,

Of climbing walls and rescue dogs,

The author signs the page and sighs.

Every word can change a man.

He is the vessel for the songs of the world:

The trees that sing and gossip overhead,

And the cavern mouths gargling seafoam.

He’s seen the top of the world

And smiled from its summit,

Anticipating the journey's end

When he would find the base of a tree

And let his emotions fly.

Concerning humans: not much is known 

With home behind and the world ahead.

In my home, we know each other, 

But across the world, I met myself.