I have been described as some sort of
creative force,
and by some, even as something to
admire,
But the very best crown I can lay on my
own head
Is to say that it's possible I'm worth
being kept.
The poet is not a fountain, but a
hand-mirror,
Reflecting the little pores and corners
of God's glory,
Too small, too blind, and unworthy to
see the whole.
What a healthy, holy irony, to be
remembered
For this impermanent record in
remembrance of others.
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