The prosaic poet
writes his silent song.
Tapping a rhymeless rhythm, he shows it
to the mind’s ears, a lively lullaby.
With invariable inconsistency
he creates his characters
conventional creatively.
Illustrating the indefinite with immortal actors.
You, he wills to waive
He indicates the inexpressible
through tales of knights and knaves.
He expresses the soul, inhumanly ineffable
He works to make his wonderful world,
he, the brilliant benevolent builder.
Convolution clear enough for a yet growing girl
spiritedly smithed by conceptuality’s garnish-less gilder.
He, like many a humble hero
may never realize recognition,
until his amaranthine ascendence, O,
to hearts of his collective congregation.
An author can only hope to sort the subliminal
and hold a responsive reception in the reader’s mind.
For now, however, while not fully final,
this author reluctantly resigns.
–Patrick C.