Poetic

It sounds like prose, perfect sentence, punctuations 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 long lost

A fragment, a hint, an ineffable thing,

An echo of the Word, lost since Babel,

Yet living, its life’s magic very much potent

Manifold and transcendental,

Encouraged by similar sounds and whispers

Of those of the same spirit but gifted in different ways

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.