These words are not the words of my poem.
This is not the tone nor the style
of the poem I am going to write.
These similes are as different from those I will use
as night is from persimmons.
These metaphors of stick figures
amidst a Rembrandt chiaroscuro.
This ink a mere symbol of the blood I will shed
When my poem is birthed upon the world.
And you. You are not the reader
whose eyes shall fail to interpret this poem.
Nor am I the writer
who will write these unspoken lyrics.
This poem that is inside me is God’s poem.
My life is His ideas made flesh.
And all that I am or ever will be
is a pale imitation of the splendor
that awaits us when at last,
the poems of our lives are read.