Could this be Poetry?

Metered verse from novice hand,

Can any Art, called Good or Pure,

Be found within the Heart of Man?

Stuttering, stammering expressions of existence

Incomplete, inexperienced, vocabulary bland,

Fingers grip hard, though sloppy and clumsy,

Push words onto pages and wonder,

“Could this be poetry?”

Stories of morals, great victories, and glories

Lack clear plot & cohesion;

A disappointed architect, scattered blueprints with no foundation.

Prose is far away.

How then, do I communicate Truth, Love, & Beauty?

Can a pen be a sword, or a weapon a remedy?

Could this be poetry?

And despite the deceptive mundanity

Can I convince you of the sublime?

That the divine we know in part

lies just behind the foggy mirror?

How I wish that this was Art.

And were all my observation flawed

may I be granted reprieve from God,

Express the True a little clearer,

   and in rhyme?

And be it true that Rhyme is Reason,

then partial rhyme is partial heathen.

And despite my apparent mundanity

   I pray this may be Poetry.