Of what poetic alchemy does this leaden torch
Transmute to golden lines, ear whisperings?
Do our hearts not skip a beat when the comfortable
Silence that is part of our poem's melody's weave,
Within its tapestry, are placed just so?
Is it not a pointless point, my pen's unending one
Does alight, for reading isn't hearing?
Is not a twig of poetree, earthen, sun sparked,
Skybound, too true to expound?
And when our heart gestures,
Bleeding ink lines dance,
Engraving such imagery in a mind's eye,
Feelings within a breast, bemusing the ear,
Do they not accompany
In the Spheres choreography?
Is nature not awoke
When bards extemporaneously
Evoke such wonder that co-creation
Of the universe is quickened?
"Ya got me!", a listener asserts
Dismissively, as the audience laughs.