It is not your face we need but your heart
shaped words, it is not that you write of love,
but you write with it.

It is not that we only are satisfied with seeing
only your hand in the quietude of, and still,
for a moment, it is not
we only think you have one, but two and
the other is holding the camera, so still.

It is not that poetry is done easily, it is that scrapping of
the dross from the surface, let's us glimpse what is beneath,
it is not pure,
it may be molten,
it is not sure,
it is far from frozen.

Oh that dross isn't a loss it is the ugly, happy, sad, crazy, lazy, beautiful,
maddening, inspiring, the list is endless, no need to defend this, this dross never
goes away from the impure state, but leaves an essence in the write.

In time, it is not
for us to judge,
but with a friendly nudge,
and a hand shake,
so that that face unseen
is close enough to greet,
and that smile to be seen
how sweet,