[Editor’s Note: Clayton wrote and read this poem for a graduation he recently completed. His dad, Rick Goldberg, submitted the poem to the DRUM.]
The search
This earth
Our birth
A Place where nothing makes sense
And, it’s all so clear
In the same moment
This is our Place
The haven where the spirit resides
And begs for our presence
A Place where nightmares wait
for the sun
A Place where the soul screams
in the daylight
And sings us down to sleep
by moonlight
A Place
Where men don’t talk, but speak
Where men don’t cry, but weep
And not weep, but grieve
A Place
Where men don’t walk, but strut
A Place
Where men don’t listen, but understand
Where men don’t see, but touch
Where men don’t smile, but laugh
Where men don’t hug, but hold
This is a Place
Where the spirit lasts
This is the space
Where the spirit grows
And just like the trees
We keep the sun and the rain
In each hand
Pressed and woven against our hearts
The only real necessity
We bring to this Place
This is the Place
Where men don’t think but feel
This is a Place
Where souls get polished
And hearts get dusted down
A Place
Where the face of the most beautiful ugliness is touched
And we stand in the middle
Of that golden center
And breathe, and breathe, and breathe
This is a Place
Of death and rebirth
This is a search to find
This is a search to be found
This is a Place
Where the young
See the innocence in the old
And the old
See the wise in the young
This is the spirit’s mission to hold on
This is a Place
Where the drums wake us up
And the light keeps us alive
This is a Place
Where men don’t tell, but expose
Where men don’t write, but preach
Where men don’t paint, but create
This is a Place
Where men don’t fall, but trust
Where men don’t exist, but live