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A poet in His Will

A poet in His Will

Tired of writing heartbroken verses,
Sore toes amidst running,
The panting of thirst,
Tired in ecstasy about those cold ballads,

Staggering upon a smooth path,
Uneven tongue makes no sense but a Delicious meal when served warm.
I am leaving this melancholic writing,
Finding me some theme of dance.

My pen has no tears more,
They were gone while the wild wind blew,
I want to write about life after death,
The absolute place of truth,
About the all-knowing becoming the All in All.

I will sit right here, doing His Will,
Until the time is ripe and purpose, accomplished.

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