(I Am) But A Poet, A Man

It��s true, I lack true eloquence and depth in my writings, daily. Eloquence and depth,
That which I've aspired to over these many years. To out-rightly own and thus, to fully embrace
The greater universe of this, my 'feather and parchment' world.

Alone in a shadow wealth of soft, emotional array, moments feed into hours - as I reflect.
Always the Poet. Always this reflection of time in memoriam. Always a bird in flight in my own skin.

Where are the Angels meant to comfort me in among this cold, abject space in time?
Where are the truer keepers of inner wealth and time?

Here, in this middle earth, I do conspire to affix softer pedals of gentleness to everything caught up in this,
My only real parade. This shelter place of my being.

Mother of The Earth, touch and bless me. Reach me here inside. Own my moments of old, leftover grace.
Refresh your Poet, your keep. Bring to me your wealth. Angels of Mercy, I am here.

Heal me. Speak to me.

Now, alone in this self made housed and real shelter depth, I cannot shape that which does not rightfully belong to me.
Free? O' Aye, I am that. Free to self absorb. Free to write. After-all, I Do shape words.

I am but a Poet, A Man.


tommy boy moran / Ireland

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Very nice indeed sir.

Thank ye, Tazz. Thanks very much - as always.

tommo / Ireland