Who Art Thou

Who art thou wiry like a wearied oak
Alone in a busy wood looking to the peak?

Oh but a tendril I am of that great Tree
That roots in heaven issuing leaf of me.

Who art thou like a songbird of lost songs
Brooding on lone branch of thy old wrongs?

Oh my tongue and throat have long foregone
Speeched music for a wordless silent tune.

Who art thou like a hermit of ages old
Surmising with thy muses on a theme cold?

Oh my heart is a brazier of a rich fire
Fuelled by an ardour belying my attire.

Who art thou, wisened sage or visioned seer,
For all thou art is not what it doth appear?

Oh but a page I am, emptied to pristine white,
Awaiting His hand and whatever it may write.

I am a poet and a villain, the noble and the brute,
I become by His whim and His breath my drift.

I bear every name and burden of darkling shame,
Such is my soul consenting to this immortal game.

Poem