Our Works, Like Us. Poem by Micha Memory Asime

We're all but poets, and sculptors, and muses, and painters.
A perfect legion, the rest just lost.
Impassioned, brave and shrewd.

Words, brushes, chisels and imagination, our tools we've got.
Imperfected, pained, and not enough.
Thou arts in heaven, we give on earth.

We need not numbers to justify the world
Our works unique other and above all
Everything's got a meaning with us...
A child's cry, an ant's work, verily even with the devil's balls.

And least, I say more...
Our work's us.
We all not gifted with the four
But two or three, the most bestowed.

A sculptor, with hands and imagination, sculpts God's eye
With words he might not describe
But a poet sits 'round his piece and goes on and poems about.
Complementing the sculptor to a T.
A painter's pictures, a muses threshold
A muses's songs, a poet's inspiration.

Going on in circles, with these and more
Our works, like us...
We do well with our experiences and emotions
Our works filled with them, full of them.