What if poets are prophets–the mouthpiece of gods?
And the songwriter pens as a spirit nods
To the beat of a rhythm from other worlds
In the womb of creation beyond
Is all art but the cry of a mockingbird
To a song that the heavens have sung?
Can a man be the author or merely a channel
Through which other authorship runs?
What if we are but moons to a brighter sun
And our boasted inventions are borrowed ones?
Who can say as new melody bursts on the mind
My ears are the first to have heard
If some things we imagine we’ve fashioned ourselves
Are but morsels passed down to mere men
We’ll forever be echoing songs they have sung
And thinking their thoughts after them