TO A POET TIMELINE
(Apropos Of Poetic Faith)
The mind hangs in silence,
All is stilled, thoughts lingering
Lazily, as if in cosmic animation;
No words drips from the faucet that once
Streamed waters of creation, and now is
Only empty air passing over an idle lexis;
How deceiving is the thought, idle mind:-
A dormant volcano creates its explosive flow
Does not the idle mind quietly stream likewise?!
There’s no creation that’s void of time;
God himself used time to speak in creation!
Thus, is not time herself, the plunger of idleness?!
Butterflies are timed in cocooned metamorphosis; babes in wombs;
And likewise, black holes are wombed in the depths of time’s space;
Yes, in all creations, time’s time is an instant of its own self eternity:-
Thus, we poets of the cistern of divine wisdom and guidance,
Must ever be aware that the sacred poem is a creature of time;
Germinating in the womb of mind, and premature birth is also timed.
Yes, while time itself–for anything–does not wait,
We mere mortals must wait on the timing of time,
For it is in its own time that the poem is delivered!