-Your Own Poets-

With pencil to paper,
With pen and ink,
Words have been written,
That should make one think.
Where did we come from?
Why are we here?
Look all around you,
Redemption is near.
There has to be something,
Higher than you,
Something that causes,
These words to come through.
They come from within,
The soul of a man,
He pours out his heart,
And writes what he can.
But even the poet,
Can be lost for words,
Though a fire is set,
By a spark that it spurs.

The beauty of a tree,
Whose branches entwine,
Dew on the grapes,
That become cool wine.
A glorious sunset,
Behind a mount,
A flock of birds,
Too many to count.
The ocean's roar,
The salty air,
An array of stars,
That spiral like a stair.
The flight of a bird,
The buzz of a bee,
Grains of sand,
Too many to see.
The cry of a baby,
Entering the world,
The universe,
Spread out and unfurled.
So many things,
That speak of You,
Your own poets,
Gave us something to chew.

Your own poets,
Have declared you exist,
Yet somehow in Your word,
Others have missed.
The Songs of Solomon,
David's Psalms,
The lullabies of Bach,
Or Brahms.
The wisdom of proverbs,
Mona Lisa's smile,
You're all around!
They're in denial!

They're in denial,
And shut their eyes,
They close their ears,
Don't search the skies.
They build a wall,
Around their heart,
Their foolishness,
Keeps them apart.

Keeps them apart,
From seeing the Light,
That's apparent,
In the words you write.
In You we live,
And move, and breathe,
Yet close our hearts,
To what You bequeath.
Your own poets,
Have persistently said,
Too late to listen!
Once you're dead...

Book by Bryan Miles

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