It sounds like prose,
perfect sentence,
punctuation and all.
But broken up here and there,
an attempt to imitate poetry.
To say words that are not words:
Driven - like a wind blown plastic bag:
Uncertain, circling, bobbing around -
But driven it is, if not tapped,
it’ll reached the seas and be lost:
To bring into existence a thing never heard.
A fragment, a hint, an ineffable thing,
an echo of the Word, long lost since Babel;
Yet living, its life’s magic very much potent,
resonant, manifold and transcendental.
Encouraged by similar sounds and whispers,
of dead and living poets,
of the same spirit but differently gifted.
That I owe it to all of them to do my part,
to craft this unique bit of mine.
And the ethereal Word,
more wholesome by the Day,
that it may soon resound,
loud and unambiguously,
that even the dead will rise.
