By Tom King
Creation’s built into our blood
We cannot help ourselves but do it.
It’s a song we cannot help but sing;
Life’s passions running through it.
The human beast’s the only creature
That signs his work so all will know
It’s his and his alone a work, an artifice
That survives him when he goes.
We are creatures of the tool, the knife and brush
The saw, the pen, the word, the dark and light.
We shape the clay, the canvas, or the paper pages
And decorate with paint, ink and pure delight.
God made us like Himself it seems - an image
Of eternal fire; the kind that rolls out the flaming stars,
Like showers of grain upon a broad threshing floor.
And we in turn pour out creations that are ours.
We are made of the stuff of stars – imbued it seems,
With the essence of the One that made the planets in our souls
We cannot help ourselves, like children we must make things
It’s just, it seems, that that’s the way we naturally roll.
© 2016 by Tom King
Photo © 2011 by Tom King