Oh darling feathered aeronauts, salve to every soul scratch and scar, do challenge your bonny range. For you sky-dance from high to higher, from lofty altitude to loftier still, and I am rendered in happiest awe. How my dreaming eye traces your air-path, the trail you skip upon with ease, writing your angelic script. Such is the attitude of the avian kind. The world, busy in its business may miss the enormity of your feats, but daily I see. I do. I witness. I love. So upon divine outstretched wings, glide and ride the free updrafts. Take your ease when you may and realise full-well how you’re adored.
The poet soul feels all and so learns not to cry, yet to knot the truth of existence, to fashion ropes from threads of light, to make possible the escape from the pits others dare not see.
The poet soul goes full raw so that it can go full roar, so it can loose the bounds of mortal men and with free arms offer up thy ink, to knit the the threads, to weave the fabric of divinity.
The poet soul swims beneath the tears, beneath that salty brine, to find the warm currents that carry life onward and support an earth divine.
Poet souls are translate divine currents into words, for they swim in the waters other eyes can neither see nor touch with fanned fin.
The poet soul realises the worth of words, for as they transform emotions they transform reality.