If faith is the act of believing in something’s existence when scarce proof is available; is the imagination the act of bringing what we believe into existence when scarce faith is available?

When I published this as a poem, of course I was going for something more than just a play on words. There is a part of me that believes we are capable of so much more as a people, to the point that I feel naïve in how it is to be accomplished.

Striving for ones goal, remaining committed to ones beliefs is by no means a new concept. Woman and men have been fighting for such things for so many ages, that I guess I am waiting for an age where fighting doesn’t necessarily lead to killing. There is a darker half to this poem titled “This Mortal Plain.” I wish to share it here:

If I knew how to live in this existence, this mortal plain, the only one I know without stepping on someone else’s toes, I would.

I wish I knew how; but I don’t, not when simply being born is enough to ignite hatred. Not even me personally, just whatever it is a person believes I represent.

Apparently, I am a threat to someone’s livelihood, as if I am stealing oxygen away from someone’s life.

This level of scorn is something I could never outlive, I am blighted with it, and there is no cure. No degree of intelligence has yet to divine one; and if it were, this “poison well” is so thick in its parts per trillion it would surely find such source and corrode it to oblivion, its traces saturating even the kindest of air.

It won’t let go, not ever. This fight manages to evade the most vigilant of delegates trained in negotiating peace.

Its fight is to continue fighting until I am dead. There is no clemency to be offered on my behalf, no reason that will be had. We are condemned.

If we cannot save ourselves, who else on Earth will? We are all dying to be saved.