Nick Cooke


I who am free and safe
wake each day under my own roof
by the grace of Whoever
and though I do not kneel
on any mat or cushion
I offer my mind to prayer
when it behoves my heart
and can make myself
an open channel
for the chorus of angels

Launch me
and I will sail
fly me
and I will soar
filled with a spirit I wish you could
distil into an elixir
and let flow
through parched lips
into weary arteries

How much would
this elixir fetch
on the open market?

We could flog it
to seekers of all types hues motives
and jack up their morale
whenever it sags
like a punctured lung
at any point of their voyage
over sea land swamp sand

They would give you
the skin off their back
the world in their pack
an IOU against
the food they do not currently possess

for who needs to eat
who thinks of a wash
or a change of clothes
when hope is high
the blood so ragingly up
and the sun just crowning
the longed-for horizon?


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