Life Drives Me to Drink

Certain men 
leave their mark
upon the rest of us,
performing heroic feats
while affirming all the while:
"Not me, but this."

Vision, squirming it's way with vitality
into the crevices of our certainty:
the potency of belief.

"See what I do! Now look beyond the doing,
and the do-er."

Any man who utters such words with integrity,
let us turn to him for guidance.
For such a one has learned the secret 
of seeing beyond himself.

I ache in the presence of such men.
I try to stand as close as possible,
along with everyone else.

We all want a taste,
we crave the nearness
of such a soul,
love to spend time 
with a human being
whose incubation has ended,
a man whose life-fire
no longer slumbers in shell
but has burst outwards and,
with seemingly inexhaustible heat,
has the power to warm the world.

How long can we be satisfied 
with the secret fire
burning in the breast of another?

We whet our appetites 
with the accomplishments of such men,
and our wine-tasting is dangerous
for their intoxicating draught is addictive.

Drink too much, too often,
and eventually nothing else
will quench your thirst.
From then on,
the search
for the source of this wine 
will consume you,
driving you deeper and deeper within yourself
until the clarity of your desperation
brings light
to the dusky vineyards inside
and such sweet nectar flows forth
that you,
too,
burst.

And, 
with seemingly inexhaustible heat,
proceed to warm the world.