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
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