Trumpet-Praises Like A Priest Poem by Mark Heathcote

Sorry, it has no more love,
feelings for the stars above
my hearts already crushed
got, trampled into powdery dust.

Yet-even-now remains a seed
a blossom that can't be creased
still climbs to heaven on Bindweed;
there trumpet-praises like a priest.

Chaste-in-chastity vowing to love
ah, only one, Him above
heart as swollen as rose Prospero
true-unto it's self no-alter-ego.

There my heart and soul would flower
whole as a day of an equal hour
twinning round some arching bower
climbing-upwards, heavens, tower.

All my magic powers disowned,
all my evil spells somehow atoned.
All doubting thoughts newly answered
my whole essence beside Him enraptured.