"I, As A Poet"

I, as a poet, inclined
To wander but not self ascribe,
Less frank of thought
And more
Merely with selfish
Vice to entertain—
My face
An entire pond of lovely image—
Off somewhere
Far from rational-mind
I sink deeply,
Submerge the secret I keep
And what the Muse
has often asked:
“Do I transcribe our showing,
Witless without me;
Or are we, denial of our own,
Lyric spots—demons of our own making,
That neither cares exorcise,
Repels all clergy at any cost?”

To love one’s own creation,
Though not ever so pure
This we have in common with God;
From high
To lowly hand,
From the heaven of brow
To the stain of art—
Are we so far different,
Our spirits always on the make,
Souls,
The ultimate canvas?

"I, As A Poet"

devotee1

Joined February 2008

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Artwork Comments

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