As formal as the Word of God
And as vulgar as lines on a subway wall
As inscrutable
As the enigma that is me

Master of dance
with great leaps and flourishes
And sometimes slinking, sneaking
slowly, silently
to see

With clarity of vision
And speak
With a pointed, acrid tongue
The truth we try to suppress

A search for the self
And the illusive meaning
of life
And living, the storied oak

A celebration of beauty
Of a phrase or image
Whose grace lives on
Transformed into immortality

A valedictory benediction
From pen to ink on paper
Whose scribblings become sacred
to someone, somewhere
and the soul

—a poem by smokey ardisson