Desiccated - Justin Hoste

What is this hole in my heart

This eternal discontentedness

That makes me create

This desire for transcendence

Why this demand for beauty

Seeking and shedding dead weight

Squeezing blood from rocks

And riding out the quake

How can I substitute wonder

Letting reason subjugate

Better to be butchered by grandeur

While spilling precious ink

If I could but meet the Author

And gaze into the eyes of wisdom

I could cease to curse my fate

And this holy thorn in my side

I would not berate

But embrace this pain

This thirsty soul

For this portion is Your pen

And I—Your poem

This composition of Yours

I will elevate

You are finer

Than the knife

I thrive under

You are greater

Than the space

I occupy