To the Poet I Know

They say your words are forged in flame, in halls where angels speak your name; From vaults of time, from storm and night, you cull the shadows, summon light. You walk through fire and make it sing, you crown the humble, make a king; Your word bends law, yet keeps its grace, a prophet’s truth in mortal place. The sea will part, the skies will clear, when such a voice the world can hear; And still, when all the trumpets fade, and all the crowns are put away You speak as if to one old friend, whose hand you’ll hold until the end.