Soon left to the page
A poem indecipherable, a chore to read
though chock-full of evocative images
ever on the brink of making sense,
hints of eloquence shot randomly through.
If the reader has little faith, the composer
viewed as foolish, inexpert, unduly obscure,
nothing important to convey,
the poem is soon left to the page
a thick, tiresome, insoluble mystery.
If, however, the reader somehow gets a whiff,
moved to trust, delves deeper,
takes the random eloquence
as further hint and promise of a hidden treasure,
sensing the passion with which the author
originally took up the pen
then the poem may also be taken up,
endured, persevered - solved and resolved,
experienced, cherished and incorporated
to the ultimate triumph of poet and reader,
one step further towards the two becoming One.
O child of God, the poet is distinguished by how
he says what everyone else already knows.