The Poet’s Night

I fail to express it all,

I think of him and then I fall.

So here the page lies, dead.

I bask in his light instead.

Unable to write about his face,

Upon seeing it, I enter heaven’s grace.

An impossible task that I repeat,

For in it, I find an unburdened retreat.

And when I write of all that I miss,

My hand leaves the page to grab his.

He is poetry that stands in flesh,

A haven when I need more rest.

Words cannot capture all of him,

Nor compose his soul’s eternal hymn. 

by Amy Shelton