Poetry

The poetic has been far from my lips and quite undescriptive of the workings of my noggin' since I came across the brim;
the shift has instead shifted me quite abruptly
to an everyday of trying to pluck up Chinese grammar patterns lost in my ever-fading memory
and awkward gestures that unfortunately don't successfully convey a bundle of forceful thoughts I've twisted around by a single thread,
thoughts that I wish to be able to express til my heart is emptied
of all except He who has instigated it all.

While all rivy up for whatever buzz the night has in store,
This evening I return to my haven
And in the quiet, I come in tune with the poetic again.
For all have a chord of beauty strung into our makeup
that God strums when we are most still
It seems mine came out of tune for a period
And I took it to be a defect
But all it takes is softened hands and a turning of a nob
to make it sound beautiful again
as if it never did before.

For poetry is when the heart speaks,
and there is no greater understanding
than in stillness before God.