Poetry is:

the first breath and the last,

and everything in between

every future, every past,

and language put to dreams

It’s when a soul escapes a man,

if only for a time

and with that moment finds a mate,

and writhes around its mind,

when God spoke life into the earth,

t’was poems on His lips,

in rhythm man did rise in in mirth,

in forms did Christ we kiss

(104 drafts left. I’m sorry captain.)