Perhaps Then... (Not A Man) Poem by Eric Cockrell

perhaps then, i am not a man....
i am the creek hidden
deep in the woods,
singing the hymn of rocks,
and stillness.
i am the gun laid down,
for the last time,
by the conscience of discontent.
i am the cry of the child,
born into a hungry world,
the eyes of the mother,
defying hope!
i am the snail that dances,
the deep growl of the dog,
i am firewood, cut and stacked,
in waiting.
i am the kiss of the chapter,
you read again and again...
i am the crossroads,
devoid of signs.
i am the headstone faded
by a hundred years,
the old chair rocking by itself.
i am the lamp left on,
the door that creaks,
the breeze that knows your hidden name.
i am the tongue unlocking
passions not yet defined,
that you didnt even know you had.
i am boots in the corner,
that dance to the beat,
awaiting feet, as if a lover.
i am a new set of strings,
on the old guitar,
the sound hidden inside of music.
i am the language of birds,
the sign on the forehead.
i am sin undressed and intimate.
i am smoke from the chimney,
of the abandoned house,
the tin roof electric with rain.
i am nothing a hundred times made over,
the crease in the blanket,
the indention on the pillow....
i am the grunt of god revealed,
and the shovel of eternity!