Excelsior

I do not write words but metaphors
Which are akin to God
And new minted things
Which fly like sparks from an anvil
And are coins to buy a seat in the world to come
And so with trepidation
They weld earth and sky
And I, a minor poet,
Wish to indicate
That poetry is shorthand
Both intellectual and emotional
And on that note I end my poem.

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