Even in its cleverest of forms,
there is an infancy to all poetry,
shattered and strewn breath of words
which virgin readers must then eschew.
It is the light of our unbridled hours
which we as poets spend in vagary,
defining thoughts in verse and rhyme,
until every blood filled page is exacted.
With each immortal word we write,
not without vestige of wounded heart,
there comes into play a single frame,
which displays the bowels of our intent.