O thank you, Kindred Soul,
who knew that poet part within my heart,
would sing at such a thing-
It's seal, as yet unbroken,
must not a moment more be left intact,
as childlike now, I claim it as my own.
Throwing wide it's cloth bound doors, I catch my breath,
confronted by the purity of white-robed virgin page
which waits content to know no other pen but mine.
What power I feel to fill this book with any world I wish -
The options flood my fertile mind in endless waves of creativity.
I long to rush right in and fill it with myself,
but as I plan what things to pen, the higher grow my hopes
until impetuous, impish joy gives way to a trembling awe
as all the potential of words unframed are felt in a pregnant hush,
which knows no limitations but my own.
Within my mind, a veil is rent
and etched upon the tablet of my heart...
"...laid Him in a stone hewn tomb,
where no man yet had lain"
The day my Lord was slain, it then was I, not He,
who died upon that tree!
O Lord, I see, that white-robed page is me
O living Word, I wait, I wait...
content for You to fill me up with all Your hopes and dreams-
This mansion white on which you write, must house
the King of kings
I've gathered fragrant memories,
