Poet

Writer I am, I unfurl thought To say I am wordplay and plot. Draft upon draft, I sculpt fine words; I sign my craft, my thoughts get heard. Sculpt now and weave, carve sculptured breath In mindful drift from life to death. Words are my paint in tints and shades As voice refrains in poise and trade. Word for word cry to touch the sky, Winged butterflies murmur fond sighs. The words now come, blazing they go As if to sum life's brief fine glow. The moments mark the rise and fall Of words that spark a tryst that calls. The muse sighs well as if to hint Of play that tells of fragrant mint. The season speeds away to die; Through wants and needs bereft of highs. The seaward splash of vivid lines As sunburst flash a quenching vine. I look to see pictures that turn My eyes find me new verse to burn. Each verse, a child precious and fine; Glimpse harsh and mild in poise and lines. I do not know what words will sculpt In afterglow yet feel no doubt. I sculpt each day, I write wordplay; I fund array, I ply new say. And so I fling the hurl of sense In what life brings in actual tense. Feel surge of thrill in words that come; Finesse funds will in song and psalm. A poet I am to ink and cite; Writer I am to word fond writes. Etch a new sketch with pulse laid plain; Sculpt words that match thought's fragrant strain. I style a poise that charms sure voice; I chisel noise with words of choice. What a fine gift to heed the hint; The wholesome lift in shades and tints. Leon Enriquez 09 Apr 2014 Singapore