If this wordsmith fashioned with iron
the letters of my thousand poems,
they would not balance a single nugget
of truth yet in the buried ore.
I take the words I am given dutifully
but none of their meticulously arranged letters
are key-shaped to fit the locks of my fetters.
Pain exists apparently to keep us
from getting too comfortable on our perch
with joy an intermittent spur to not lose heart entirely –
inarticulate glimpses of the possibilities beyond.
These poems are a part of the chains
forged in this lifetime; part of your chains, too.
Enduring a perch from which I can find
no way to lift my pinioned body
and explore the promised skies.
O child of God, the worth of these poems
may lie in their inability to tell the truth.