The Poet, A Sermon

ACT I

Scene 1

The poet gives a sermon.

THE POET:

I would like to give in ordance to give.  Be it here or elsewhere from beyond the seas into the presence of the stars.  The ertswhile galaxies would know our kind.  Would they be hateful of what we have or will they love our difference.  We be still in a constant flow of death.  And still we hold our hands in a beautiful respiration.  This breathing is wonderful.  We hold it in full bark of our life.  Dogs know where to go for their tails.  We know our lungs very well.  The sundance of plants continues leagues through the way.  I have my doubt and if I am to denie it I would be a smaller man than I had had in view of myself.  God will be our advice.  We are no more likely to breathe ourselves in than to cough ourselves out.  Man died to give a history that is granted to our needs.  We are completely in control while we speed away from the accident.  We are slowly dropping away.  We do not need to hold ourselves braxy in the corner.  We are deeply felt and collar our desires from the baying silences.  We need no encore for our welts.  Who am I being trapped upon a stage.  An actor acting for his life.  We all know we've down badly and we are here to turn things around and we will.  Just not in the ways we expect.  For you have come here to be lifted up and made brighter from the inside out.  You have come here to find yourselves anew.  You have come here to go back out again.  Round in circles and forests green you are here to be seen.  Square fictions make a basic fact that build on blocks for the time fitted out.  But we will not go unchallenged.  We have our positive light put into action.  We will speak monepic and have monoblepsia in our sight.  We will burst into our emotion our strength of chattering colours.  We have many more and others waiting to fill the stance of realism.  We will fill a prism to cursp the last in line.  All will be fine.  This gives us time to stand stately and in long walks by the beaches.  You have been given sermons by preachers, well let a lyricist perform instead.  We will not be hold by any bound we will confound an unbeileveing nation watching television by one station.  All I'm doing is caring for impart persuation.  All that you have known and gathered in your head it will contain a brief slumber, a quiet restraint.  The pale blue clouds of forever form in fluffs of frightened gulfs.  We will be touched by nothing.  We will rise and sing in a withy flurry of scotched fustrations and ascending nonsense.  We will be the bees of a honeycrest, the salamanders of remaining trusts.  We will be royally blue and given to bias.  Let the flames flicker over our highest skies, let the dark quickens through these shadows and the greatness of our gift shall shine splendor over this cast of cowards who were suddenly brave.  We'll take this to our grave.  This is a moment of pure lightning, the sizzle of an upcast song.  Purity is a thing worth holding on to even if it is despoiled.  It is worth mentioning that everyone is a memeber of our lives.  Takening our squealing donkeys to a new worlds of hope that have arisen from the stagnet pools of our lives.  This is remembering all of life, straight from each final flight.  This all means something to each one of you.  I'm not frightened, no, not even a little bit, for the facts of life to find me out.