Thurman P. Woodfork

THE SOUL OF A POET

Calliope: Muse of Eloquance and Epic PoetryWhat a lovely concept; it conjures up
visions of an ethereal entity full of wisdom
and empathy, character and beauty.
But the mind, I believe, is part of the soul;
together, they control the person and form
his fundamental nature.

Should the mind harbor dark emotions
in its recesses – a nook of narrow-mindedness,
a dank corner of mendacity – all the exalted
prose in the world becomes a fetid belch on the wind.

How easy it is to write of love and honor,
how much more difficult to transform words into action:
“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels,
and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass
or a tinkling cymbal.”

All the lyrical, inspired, spellbinding words
in the world are just hollow mockeries when
they sing of beauty while shuttering ugliness.

Like the Biblical whited sepulchers, they are lovely to
contemplate but conceal decay and corruption.
It is surely a terrible thing to waste a mind… and a soul.
“And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three;
but the greatest of these is charity.”
Veritas Omnia Vincit