The Poet

Carefully chosen words laid in like brick
And then the mortar grit and muddy thick
To build a structure where no ready form
Could yet unto the watchful eyes discern;
But still the layer labored unaware
Indeed quite doubtful anyone should care
For there was such fulfillment in that work
No part of him would deign to stop or shirk
That labor born of love that egged him on
Until upon that page no light yet shone.
Rest of tomorrow ‘til the sun shall rise,
Where line by line fresh toil greets the skies.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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