Ποίημα

“For we are his ποίημα (workmanship).” Ephesians 2:10

Bone-white pages, fresh and warm;
The lantern burns with feathered flame.
His pen is poised with ink like night—
He takes a breath and scribes the name.

Composed by hand, with willful strokes,
Like tender touch on silken skin.
The stanzas stand in youthful grace,
With thoughtful lines and rhymes akin.

Penned in passion, stained in blood—
Love revealed and purpose lost.
His glass of wine is drained of life:
For was this poem worth the cost?