A poet does not write—he only dreams,
Rendering vivid images in ink;
His readers, moved, may ponder what he means
And oft, still more, what hidden thoughts he thinks.
One moment, scenes of death and wretchedness,
Now love and life enshrined in fleeting days;
Then peace and harmony and endless bliss—
Or yet the sight of Hell’s eternal blaze.
But may his writing ever be of truth—
May his heart stay steadfast unto his creed;
And may his pen stroked stirrings there induce,
Some poignant thought that measures word or deed.
So blind ink stirs what inner visions gleam,
To paint a world that is, or yet may seem.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.