His Poet

I hit save when I brave

the sword of the penman

Face to face with the blank lineman

I sip savor when I dip my ladle of ink

into the thirsty loaf of pages

I taste the cuisine of the recipe of creation

I am a skilled ready writer

I am called to the front line, a fighter

Waging war with words

I expose sour milk until it curds

I am a brave painter

An artist of the letter

Scourged in dies of blues

Soaked with salty sea of tears

Stained moon slices of blood mares

I am an interpreter of dreams, imaginations and feelings

I am the sound of silent fears

pining love and cares

I am the boldness of the bashful,

The strength of the week

Spoken faith of the doubtful

I am a poet, a writer

Writing with joy

Writing with sorrow

I write till I write out of ink

I out write the thoughts I think

I am a ready writer

The more I write I get tighter

and freedom flows free

for destiny is the freeway

and the clogging agony of what I should be

has passed away no more to hinder my course

for the truth is my transport, I am on a horse

of purpose to the end that was spoken

The sword is in my mouth as the pen in my grasp

I am a ready writer fulfilling the task

A preacher through pages

A prophet of ages

In these last day stages

I am called to this stage

not to be a star

but to reorganize the distorted puzzle

To release revelation from this blind generations muzzle

To decree and declare the Lords day

To announce His purpose and his way

I am like John the Baptist

on the list of the chosen

called to the weapon of the marker

Crying out across a wilderness of blankness that has become darker

I cannot put my sword down till the next battle

Or put my pen down till the next tackle

On the line of scrimmage

I am on team a runner for this lineage

Because I am on post

I am a servant of the Lord of host

I am His poet

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