My heaven

I want to write words written down upon my soul with brazen fire and the knife marks of a life well carved out. I want to do this for they are my children, my legacy, the only thing I have to offer the world.  They emerge into this world pure and remain so, even if the way I put them together falters, the words do not.  It is only in the way I arrange them does the world then call me poet, or perhaps it is only I that gives me this name.  Nonetheless, I want to write words captured on stormy nights to chase future fears away. I want to write words boldly glinted like swords to defend those who have no words or do not know how to put them together. I want to write words like a stone mason building walls of great castles to be manned by verbs and veracious truths so any army of doubt come hastily to my gates may find them well defended.  Yes, I want to write words so that in my hour of death when the breath of me can speak no more, when my hand can write no more, that all the words before that moment contain the feasting for souls to come and come again.  That is my eternity.  This is my heaven. 

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