on Poetry...

It is the language, the language I speak,
Sometimes self-arranged they come to me.
Quivers me within, ruffles my mind,
Whispers in the ear in the ruin of time.
I talk to Him, the erratic language,
I Give it a name, call it poem.
The ballad, the cadence, the vowel-chime;
The ode, the lyric, the poesy-rhyme.

He gave me the life, the canticle love,
Made me pure as a little dove.
The trinity I made, with Him and his Song,
Can now be broken never and by none.
I am not a poet, nor is this an Ode,
The lyric I know little, prosaic verse I chose.
Hagiolatry work it is not, but your praise;
I am your new lover extending your range.
My astonishment reaches the sky
How can some expressions be so high!
Are you earthly or divine?
Might be an angel…
Or just, a human mind.