Poetry knows no creed

Poetry knows no creed,
other than beauty.
Its subject becomes so
in its realisation
within the lines,
meter and rhymes
of words written on a page.
Souls from every age
adjust and rearrange
themselves, stumbling
over punctuation
and lexicons to give birth
to the appropriate — rules
immaterial — syntax.
Whether it’s describing
lonely clouds over vales,
wrestling with the decorum
of conflicts breaking youths,
scaling the heavens from hell
or descending to the depths.
Whether it’s in the name
of God, intercourse,
philosophy or emotion,
or even the movement
of the very heavens,
poetry knows no creed;
only that the poet
bleed ink
into beauty.


Sauce
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