To The Reader Poem by Ayn Timmerman

To the reader of this poem-
a face in the mass,
with stony gaze, or hollow eyes,
or blessed with a far-away look;
can you see what I place before you?

Color and shape mean nothing without
a firing of imagination on your part,
so take these as you will-
derive no meaning that you cannot defend,
no feeling that you can comprehend, no-

not unless I give you the pieces.
Then you build it all alone;
the yellowed light of the golden hour,
or internal sounds inaudible to other ears,
the sinking and loss of the very soul that beats.

Sole, sole, not to walk over, but maybe,
something holy everyone starts with,
but most misplace,
a whitish vapor inside that
eludes electron rays and the
most sophisticated viewfinders
crafted by human thought.
Can we deny it's existence?
If a tree falls...?

I lost or sold or traded mine,
but found it slightly used
and much folded and wrinkled-
has this happened to you?
Did you ever want to be a maker of music,
a saver of lives, or to leave your
footprints in the white powder of the moon?

What is your passion?
Something that sparks the soul
and makes it jump with life,
a power to act.
Have courage, you are not the first nor the last
to fight this war, some die and others would
feel dead.

But all would give anything to understand why.
So reader! The choice is yours.