When I Craft a Poem

A little sneak peek at what it looks like when I write poetry. Warning it gets weird.

When I craft a poem,

I listen to an unheard voice.

So subtle is its utterance,

I find myself leaning in,

closer to the keys,

to catch its whisper.

The voice is not words,

but feeling shaped into letters,

arranged to reverberate and echo

across epochs in time,

antiquity and age alike.

It is rhythm woven with placement,

an offering curated as praise,

to this mortal’s Muse, my Flame –

drawing every gathered glance

toward the Fire’s altar.

I hear it.

My bones feel it.

My hands fly across the keyboard

to express it,

to give it shape,

in text.

As always –

Dust,

to You,

for You,

from Him,

in me.