Like me,
my Poetry is far from perfect,
—a verbal oxen gored
Like me,
my words are often frail and broken,
—still crying to be heard
In me,
the message has found its student,
—to very humbly expound
In me,
the truth can accept a birthmark,
—for a promise more profound
Unto me,
the burden is left to finish,
—my life to pledge headlong
Unto me,
the words now free—unsentenced,
change imperfectly to song
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)