Poetry In Motion Poem by Mark Heathcote

We're all poetry in motion in God's hands
‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me.
The body of butterflies is damn ugly,
but with glowing wings, their beauty expands.

We're not two-or-three dimensional
we've got a fourth and fifth; do you get my gist
there is something very intentional
something special makes us exist.

And yet remains purposeful and unclear
every life radiant with its own music
follows its drumbeat, each balladeer
comes, composed of grace's own acoustics.

If a rock crumbles to sand - composedly
turned to crystal glass, can't you apprehend?
We're all poetry in motion in God's hands
‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me.

With glowing wings, beauty wanton expands
flies in the face of many hopeless demands;
guess the music in me wasn't really mine.
Like an orchestra, everything intertwines.