Evergreen Poem by Bill Cantrell

Poetry substantially changes my balance
Ever bringing me to my senses
In times of critique,
I have said,
Let a poem rest In peace
To raise a poem from the dead,
Is to pull it out of time
Archaic words and terms,
Bones without flesh,
Cannot be fitted with proper decorum
Etiquette in terms of the writers point of reference,
Is stillborn,
Looked over by those who read in the here and now

As holy scripture was handed down,
With life and death,
As it's bread
Blood and tears,
As it's waters of salvation
Yet look,
Oh, just how many interpretations are there?
Yes, indeed,
As it is a living book,
I realize that a poem has never died at all,
It being a gift passed along to all who choose to partake
And so,
It belongs to all,
Each one,
To mold,
To shape,
To cherish,
Or hate,
For no poetry is put to rest,
Unless it goes unwritten