Poetry is the music of all words.
That song’s a power - higher! It resides
In this, where extra measures are absurd
And beckon rhyme to present all that hides.

Alone, we poets labor in the soul,
To mine and thresh each gem from our Muse.

Intently waiting, ceding what controls,
For a beauty we might surely use.
Echoes etch journeys down from thought.
As fingers hold pen in partner’d dance. Ballets of words on paper now are caught,

And render Face from heaven’s guiding trance.    

   Lettered songs are a “mystery of art”.
   And willing ones redeem the greater part.