You can see it in a drowned man’s eyes
In the pawn shop window I just passed
Frosty truths that come to the table uninvited
The poet and the truth
Face to face, one whistles, one listens
The napkins fill with cognitive snapshots
The poet drowns in words
Just wanting to say something
Or hear it said at all
The dying words from a poet’s mouth
Blow about in autumn color
Drifts and piles that shape the years of practice
What's worth saying has to be said by someone
So a poet goes looking and would suppose
That words rubbed together right would produce
Word museum sentences ripe with meaning
Phantasms haunting great books and minds
Torches lighting the way for all
The poet takes aim and fires
At the fog of meaning
He tugs at God’s coat tail
We are creators, created in the image of God. Like the fish we are having a hard time realizing the water around us. There is more that has not been created than has been.
