It was a swift epiphany, an illuminating
Realization, that moment I walked into the
Room. An artist was sitting on a stool
Next to an empty canvas on an easel.
Paints of beautiful colors sat on a table.
I remember soft music playing, and the
Evening shadows had cast a quiet
Reflection as she began to speak,
Sharing the empty canvas was this
Earth before it was created, empty and
Void, then taking her brush she dips it
In paint, with strokes so evenly and
Smoothly, as she moves from side to side.
She speaks of the creation of this world,
No longer a dark canvas, it becomes a
Work of beauty. At that moment I was
Gripped with the thought, God could take
My life of darkness and recreate His child.
Little did I know the instrument of poetry
He would use, weaving its threads about me.
I should be so blest,
Or be put upon a shelf to
At least I express
Through pen and ink
The scope of colors
Tapping upon a vastness
Deep, I weep
It is not a fatal sin to
What lies within
For my sorrows make me ill
Until I share
We are not alone the
We own have flown through
A self proclaimed poet is
What I am
Not worthy to walk upon
Of these sleeping poets
These comforter’s of the
Now inspire me to plod my
Please do not take my pen
And ink away
That I may survey my dismay
And each book I write until
I will draw upon the inkwell
Of tears from my past!