Call to Create

This restless, ever-cresting urge, that pounds, incessant, in my breast, much like the ocean's pulsing surge that never seems to pause for rest, will have its way. I must obey. So I go, in meek surrender, find a quiet place to hide, and placing pen to paper, render poems from the swelling tide. Though sweet release, a transient peace. The work complete, I pause, but find no sooner is the pen replaced, than flooding words wash through my mind, my playful castles are erased, and I, once more, am as before. If I, a child of God, would be so strongly moved to write, create, I wonder, is His poetry the art my heart would imitate? (His words, I hear, made worlds appear!) I realize earth may never know these fleeting works my soul has given. Still, from mystic depths they flow and rise like morning mist, to heaven, where His ear at least, may hear.