Poets Hope

Poets Hope

Poets press hard the quill.

The tattooed papers their bequest.

In early morning's darkness still,

their labors bar their bodies rest.

Eyes and minds on focused task.

Their heart's ink upon the lines.

"Whose eyes might see?"  One might ask,

blotted smears for other times.

Language, foreign to the day,

seeks wise children from beyond.

Those who still know how to play

innocent game of which they're fond.

To Heaven's gate their tempered words

seek the Savior's golden stamp.

Sentence formed with nouns and verbs,

lit as shimmering, lighted lamps.

Hope springs eternal blest

from strange wordings worded plea.

Exploding from unguarded breast

as torrents from internal seas.

His nothing art of wordy phrase,

so soft an arrow's lovely arc.

Strikes hard the crust; cuts through the maze

and pacifies the brooding heart.