laureate

The poet soul feels all
and so learns not to cry,
yet to knot the truth of existence,
to fashion ropes from threads of light,
to make possible the escape
from the pits others dare not see.
The poet soul goes full raw
so that it can go full roar,
so it can loose the bounds of mortal men
and with free arms offer up thy ink,
to knit the threads,
to weave the fabric of divinity.
The poet soul swims beneath the tears,
beneath that salty brine,
to find the warm currents
that carry life onward and
support an earth divine.
The poet soul translates divine
currents into words,
for they swim in the waters
other eyes can neither see
nor touch with fanned fin
The poet soul realizes the worth of words,
for as they transform emotions,
they transform reality.
Mighty silver-bladed words.