We are the poets, spinners of all that is read and heard:
The blessed utterance, the jubilant cry;
Devout patrons of the written word.
Masters and slaves of literary expression
In a practice not just passion but also profession.
Make way, make way for the poets:
The constructors of all admonitions & prayers, praises &exclamations,
All accompanied by proper connotations.
We, who make dreams into ink dwelling reality,
And reality into ink dwelling dreams;
Dreams sometimes so confusing, so deluding
That we’re not even sure what they mean.
How do we do this? You may ask,
For the job of a poet is a challenging task,
One that involves not just proper usage of time,
Diction & imagery, meter & rhyme,
But also inspired by a power divine.
Paper is our Eden, and ink be our seed.
The beauteous words, they emerge from our Adam and our Eve.
Words that penetrate the heart, resonating deep within the soul,
Words that take root within the sunken spirit,
And once again, make it whole.
Words that freely like the golden eagle, soar,
Submerge themselves in the very depths of the crystal blue ocean,
And prance gleefully among the stars,
Though the passion for this beauty be not just ours,
But yours, unknowingly slaves as well to what we write,
Words & sayings, phrases & cries that make up your very life.
The very fibers of that life, in a single syllable they reside,
For your true feelings and emotions in words, you unconsciously confide.
They may pirouette at our command,
Their very existence we may demand, but,
Without them, there is no conscious us;
A mind still in existence,
But not much more than dust.