Is It Too Late? Poem by Eric Cockrell

what constitutes deliverance?
how do we define, and draw the line,
between the sickness, and the cure?
between written morality, and ingrained morality?
between doubt of god, and the presence of god?
between hope, and despair?

do we accept what we see as real?
or must we touch, and taste, and feel?
is not the part of our heart that we hide,
the part that needs to be revealed?

whose hand is on the wheel?
who named the stars, and discovered fire?
must we not lose what we're most afraid
to lose in order to find what we most need?

do we spend all of our lives
trying to regain what we lost as children?
why are we afraid of darkness,
being children of the womb?
and why do we find that which is most sacred,
held by the hands of our darkest sins?

we fear death, we worship death... which?
is it the prize of a life well lived?
the cost of our guilt?
or are we just afraid of letting go,
of something beyond our control?

we run madly through life possessing and owning,
or being possessed and owned.
we try to make a name...
yet life is far more than names!

we cower before our own nakedness...
afraid of our own wings!
yet trees and rivers and mountains,
already converse with the sky!

who are we? is it too late?
or can we redeem the time?
can we hear the song of the mockingbird?
the chanting prayers of the ants?