The Poet
That one who toils at night.
The one who judges my right.
That one who mourns the day,
is the one who sails the tumultuous way.
The boy who writes with godly mission,
The one who hears the solemn vision.
The one who scratches across the wall,
The visage of hope for one and all.
The one who writes but has no hands,
The one who speaks with fetters and bands.
The one who tells the stories of old
The one who dares to break the mold.
The one who is redeemed before his time
A messenger formed at the bowel of the mind.
The one who the candlelit mine,
And suffers to conclude that final line.
The issuer of text, a soul that was vexed,
Is the writer with the crooked hand who tells the story of fallen man.