And It Was The Little Things

It was the Little Things that saved me, the Little Things that did.

The Little Things that stopped me from lie, sin, and fib.

The Little Things, the insignificant,

the tiny things, the One no one visits

The things overlooked by man and his omniscient presence.


I am God, I am Fear.

I am the roar which all shall hear.

For I am Ozymandias: the king of kings,

Destruction be to all Earthly beings and things.


I am alone, I am the sole

Protector of all that is mine: pure and whole.

For what else matters than a grand manifesto?

A midnight walk? A bowl fettuccine mixed with pesto?


I was lost in a world, suffused with imagination

Corrupted by selfishness, pride, and manifestation

Of a being who would never survive, or live to see the day

When the Little Things would rise above, and surely clear the gray.


And looking down from my Iv’ry tower

I pondered, “Do the hermits still revere my all-encompassing power?

And descending, like Devil from High above,

I plummeted as bloody, yet pure,  snow-white dove.


Assuming myself as one with the caravan, I began my assimilation.

My metamorphosis, my conversion, my humble transformation.


In pleading with the beggars and eating with the men,

I can now only look up to God and shout, “Thank you! Amen!”

For saving me from the wretch and swine I was before,

Now letting me roam as quiet as flea on the back of rotting boar.


And in my covert operation, I found myself in altercation!

For the hermits spoke of The Little Things, which required no manly perception.

To boasts of test scores, worldly knowledge, and education oh my!

Yet to the hermits, there was not on face a batted eye.


For in bliss they lived, ignoring what was to come.

They lived in the present, in happiness, linking arms with everyone.

In a heaven they lived, only perceivable to narrow eye

That noticed the tiny, the strange, the awry.


In spending time with the hermits, without shelter, cloth, or home

I discovered to myself, why they could live without abode.

As we sang under moonlight, and meandered by day.

Toyed with sticks and stones, dirt and clay.

It was there when I saw it, there when I realized,

The Little Things were not tangible. No, they were not even materialized!


So I cherished what I had, and gave thanks for what I was given.

But remembering that all gifts come from inside. From deep within!

And I learned to cherish every beat, every breath, every moment.

Destitution spawned richness--leaving your three by two card innately poor,

No sixteen digits could save you, nor manly medicine that promised life forevermore.


Now as I peer from my cave on mountain hidden,

I remember that lesson that I could never be from my mind unwritten:

It was the little things I noticed, the little things I found.

The little things that promised, the little things that count.


This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


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