The Poet

”He is a Poet”, It was said of him. And so they sought in proof a poem, made alone for them. A tome for all the ages, every eye, and every ear. Words of witness dedicating prose, to those would hear. So he complied. Rolled up his muscled sleeve of thought and pounding words like blacksmith sought, to swing them to his side. For what is poetry but words, like cattle in stampeded herds, or formal, business-structured, Oh so neat, every word and every sentence measured to complete. Why, he could write for days on end, make poetry, or just pretend, as long as everything would just combine, to give the folks their simple endless rhyme. But this is not a poem, as It has no heart. True poems come, not on demand, but as with art, they are created by, an inspirations’ spark; then guided by one's passion to their universal mark. For what is poetry but prayer, holy in its plea to set the heart of every person soaring ever free. These words… these very words he wrote. He wrote for you; that you would know the beauty in the moments shared, so few. He could not give more love to you, than you already own; if he might open all the hearts and souls of angels shone. He could not add one ounce to all the joy you might allow within each heartbeat, where we hear, the voice of God somehow. A voice that whispers to us all, the word we need to grow, "Love", the only word, a poets’ heart need ever know.