The Choir of Poets

The Soul art in poems is the wordsmiths With sun or lamp, in light or dark awake The chore of a doom word master locksmith Is to capture, enchain all lone heartache Conjure through words and sounds, magic, a spell Images of honour, beauty and love Or hate on the hooks of Satan from hell Tempting unfallen lone Angels above To write of love should we not have grieved it? And so our world forlorn is plagued with loss But hark take heed do not loose heart or quit Within ourselves faith will take us across We must choose to see with our eyes open Or to close them with risk of old Eden