The waves we make will flow to worlds unseen
if fostered in a heart which will not cling
to what it sings, nor be a dark machine
for Grub Street marketing (a one-night fling).
The waves we make define how we’ll be judged
when breath no more can flow between our lips —
when all the days we have and will have trudged
are counted up and lodged in cosmic scripts.
But no excuse can by our selves be made
while claiming that we knew no distant shores.
For empathy by most is underplayed;
We need to live as selfless troubadours.
When waves we make have flowed to someone’s shore,
be sure those waves are well-intentioned — pure.
© Alan Morrison, 2018