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Poetry is-the-
spirit-of liberty,
harmony-of the-
heart. Picked-and-
up carried-along-by-
the-hands of the-wind-
or if-you will-as the-
voice of this ink-
being-spilled-
onto-the-
innocence-
of this parchments' task,
is the proof of the truth of-
God's-simple-culmination-
of-tender-reasoning origin-
of-soulful-feeling. Like-removing-the sharp pain-
of-the bloody-glass-shards-bludgeoned-under-your-
foot. The-perfect beauty regret of the opportunity as-
such realized but wasted. Poetry-is-the open provision/
expression discernment expansion patient journey-
of acceptance-of this life's-determined-gracious gift-
of-union. Believing-I-am-no-greater-nor-less than-
anyone/thing-other than the challenge of my quill-
in this-wondrous-world-in any-respect. This-
is-where and-when-I-find-out-just-how-
much how gloriously so through-
Him, I'm perfected. So I-
wonder-now-why-it is, we-
all don't-sit down maybe sometime,
hey-maybe-more-than-one-time, and write ... ?
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