While higher and higher the flames explode
our words escape through clouds of smoke.
They drift across the line of time
throughout poetic realms of rhyme
where past and present live as one
awaiting news of what's to come.
A future offspring blessed at birth
who'll write of struggles midst his mirth.
In rhyme or free-verse matters not
for with our words his soul is taught
to ride the waves and soar the skies
and speak the beauty of her eyes-
To pen the verse he holds within
while inspiration's fire begins
and burns with zeal like those before
as generations hold the door
that leads into a world unknown;
they leave him there to go alone-
To father those who understand,
who hold the pencil in their hand,
awaiting he who guides the heart
and teaches them poetic art.
The future lies within their pens
as generations start again.