the first breath is poetry itself
born knowing how to feel wholly
hands unsteady but heart unyielding
his words spill without yet shaping
the craftsman does not come easy
he stumbles under the weight of making
his hands learn the language of precision
he breaks and builds the poet again
side by side they fight for space
the poet weaves chaos like morning light
the craftsman stitches structure from ash
one wild, one measured, both essential
together they create a truth heavy
both fire and the vessel to hold it
not one without the shadow of the other
the soul needs both to find itself