The Legacy

by S.A. Vaught

Sons will rise,
daughters give birth,
generations come,

dirt will drought
and flood,
wind will whirl

as the bee
buzzing about
the beauteous flowers,

and the clay
man returns to
ash dust.

My name joy
rides the channels
of the Holy One's voice,

boom in their ears
they'll hear whispers,
waken from the restless.

Visions glimmer,
painted to eye lids;
they too will be burdened,

as I were, with a
starving craving creating
earthly eyes unseen

sights; tapped into
the divine Spirit.
The artist man

drenched in
exhaustible sweat,
heavy breath

strokes, his body dies
back to the ground,
as I, and

Sons will rise,
daughters give birth,
generations come.