The Choir of Poets
The Soul art in poems is the wordsmiths
With sun or lamp, in light or dark awake
The chore of a doom word master locksmith
Is to capture, enchain all lone heartache
Conjure through words and sounds, magic, a spell
Images of honour, beauty and love
Or hate on the hooks of Satan from hell
Tempting unfallen lone Angels above
To write of love should we not have grieved it?
And so our world forlorn is plagued with loss
But hark take heed do not loose heart or quit
Within ourselves faith will take us across
We must choose to see with our eyes open
Or to close them with risk of old Eden
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