Words walk upon the porous page,
From a plain poet’s heart well wrought;
A little-known and silly sage;
Caring not if he should or ought.
Insolent indelible ink,
Which pours forth my secret soul,
With words that stand upon the brink
Of unwritten lines yet to know.
Each verse born with labor of love;
As I search for long elusive line;
Magical words descend from above.
Such marvelous muses are mine?
What soft and eager eye shall see?
Or what heart touched by the sound,
Of this poor poet’s right to be;
Even after he’s long in the ground?
I write not for exalted accolades,
Or applause from a cheering crowd;
Unable to draw the silent shades,
A poet’s heart must speak aloud