I, the Poet

Perilously predictable peoples

Congregate in reverence to surround

The idol awash in gold on steeples,

Clamoring in unison with a sound:

“Father, for thy divine words, I now cry,”

And their pious prayers proliferate

As a crackling voice descends from the sky,

“Children, with holy words I consecrate,”

“My entrusted power lies in the pen.”

And within my hand that pen doth retire,

Its seductive silent stupor of Zen

Contrasting the dark inferno of ire

That with a stroke of my impassioned hand,

I, a poet, may conjure on demand.