the poet is a prisoner of his own volition

 "just write it and then let it go."
But I can't just yet.

I want to write words that will coax
irony from my sleeves
like my lover's garment sliding to the floor
releasing her breasts to my waiting hands
hungry with anticipation and the melancholy
of mist-laden ages
I want to write erotic confessions for a
voyeuristic world that will go blind and
search for the God that has already doomed
the planet with nature's mythical poetry,
to die and die like heroes
I want the masses to be born again,

my knees know this ground,
falling,
like reluctant messiahs,
words
come like shadows from this darkness
sing halleluyah on a holy page
dog-eared with doggerel
illustrated men and women
cover themselves with indecency
and ask where is the love, lost
in the mirror of self-reflection

only a poet knows how to do battle with himself
in the honour of all that lives
when lips are hard-pressed to speak
and break the silence
in the vigil of candlelight
as it crosses destiny
in the maddening roar
of a thunderous waterfall as it drowns out
the ovation of starlight

no poet will ever write that poem, but a man
in love with his life will be slain in the spirit
and the ecstasy can never be wiped from his
face with words he has yet to write
the Christ within will have lifted that veil
for all to see the love-light shining through
his words made flesh.