Poetry is given a bad name
It is boxed in like death once alive.
So much power to words who cling
Or fight or match or roar and sing
Poetry is not magic, say
Its charm belongs not with this guise.
The truth of the matter comes from the source
That the inspiration of a piece is its prize.
The fact that words soar and creak
Does not prove true the ideas they speak
Ignore the charm of whispered rhymes
Refuse to consume harmonious lies.
We have but few years of life loaned to us,
A mere sparkling glimmer of what once was planned.
We’ll return our lives when we’ve lived too much,
And we fulfill the story lines our own plots have spanned.
Welcome to true home then we will be,
Leaving behind the shadow of life as it was.
Thrown open the gates of eternity,
Our reward in death the fruits of our trust.
Who am I and what meaning do my ramblings possess
What cursed yearning do I seek to repress?
The anguish in my mind is finally at rest
In the moments I hear my King speak.