The Writer's Craft

Perfection flawed surely, yet he still craves to grow plain books made great by his right hand his portraits, more vivid in words than in photos his mind creates thus his hand writes and ever more lucid, so that our hearts would hold what’s on each page that his pen plied He scripts how heaven touched the earth, only clearer such that the blind saw through their ears in crypts and deadened tombs, would get the dead attached to every word that his pen bled we missed the worthful things because we closed our eyes but they’re extant, within his pen