Words do not a Poet make

Words do not a Poet make;
A beating heart that bleeds 
To break
Over and over and over again
Is the ink that forges the tortured pen-
Is the blood that spills and fills again-
Is the open I that struggles through time
To weave the words that wake the mind
 As Holy Athanor holds inside
The broken Shards of Soul and Sines-
Waving magic in tragic rhymes
Bleeding seeds that tie and bind
The love affair of Space and Time;

Words do not a Poet make;
A desperate dance with the daemons
Of fate
Over and over and over again
Is the ink that forges the tortured pen-
Is the blood that spills and fills again-
Is the whispered wisdom that bears thru pain
A lucid truth that fractures the brain
 As sacred Golgothas hidden codes
Implode within the neural nodes-
The Christed seed is born anew
From heavens leaven, the holy Dew
The Time is Now and the Poem is You.

Charleen Johnston 
6-3-2024