Like me,
my Poetry is far from perfect
  —a verbal oxen gored

Like me,
my words are often frail and broken
  —still crying to be heard

In me,
the message has found its student
  —to humbly expound

In me,
the truth can accept a birthmark
  —for a promise more profound

Unto me,
the burden is left to finish
   —my life to pledge headlong

Unto me,
  the words now free, unsentenced
    —change imperfectly to song

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)