Each word that forms and thrusts to light,
Each line that buds and flowers.
A symphony of eloquence
Attesting to strange powers.
Each orchestrated utterance
Of whispered views most odd,
Unbidden, they undoubtedly
Must be the voice of God.
And me, a humble vessel,
A blank receptive slate?
But then again it could be simply
Something that I ate.
© Copyright Philip Barton, 2010. All rights reserved
