The poet wrote, by day and night <br />Of things, for others, had less light: <br />He wrote the dawn, into a storm <br />He wrote the dirt, into a worm <br />He wrote his heart out, on a leaf <br />And into joy, inserted grief. <br /> <br />And as day dawned, upon his words <br />They saw things, which seemed absurd; <br />A tree grew thickly from his chest, <br />With hanging fruit, of nature's best; <br />His arms to angel wings, had turned <br />But his heart: black-smoked and burned. <br /> <br />The smell of incense; smoke and myrrh, <br />From his burnt heart, just grew and grew <br />His body; turned into an altar, <br />His words, into a sacred psalter <br />Where lovers go, to say their vows <br />And no more care, for 'whys' or 'hows'.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-40/
