Language Of A Poet Poem by Yorktown Disciple

O, Poet, strangely perfect, thy thoughts so keenly splayed,
You speak as though the earth was formed by your tailor,
Stitched with hand tools, a compass borrowed from a sailor,
Skillfully rolled, divinely filled with holy water after you prayed.

Birthing a poem, sorting words, diligently as a poetical midwife,
Granting all living creatures the ability, to devour each other,
Respectfully waiting for the strongest, to survive their mother,
'Tis by your word you gave meaning to beauty and horror of life.

You wrestled with champions, head locked the blessed and meek,
And then you rested, while watching to see of a crescent moon
Would interfere with your planned rotation, penned by noon,
Thy wonder, symbolism to honor, poetic thoughts so mystique.

O, poet, you shine like a beacon of dignity and embroidered bliss,
I too, long to become a master word seamster, no one can dismiss!