Past, Perfect Poem by Kevin Moore

My past a rushing flow which unchecked winds
a twisting path from mind through heart to page -
and though a mighty link to what was binds,
chain’s craftsmanship shows artistry with age.

Seen closely, even poetry writ bold
shows tiny indications of new life
when touched by hands once young (now grown too old)
and heard by purest heart oft-stained by strife.

My poetry a seed which, planted well,
must give a glimpse of darkest, coldest night -
that emptiness before the morning’s light -
yet offer freedom from addiction’s Hell.
Now come new Hope! New life beyond the grave!
Words yet to write, He chose this wretch to save.