I imagine King David,
writing instrument in hand,
scroll on one knee,
writing furiously –
trying to beat the dusk.
This is when poets live –
as the world falls asleep,
poetic minds wake –
Imagery marches down the page.
Poetic hearts beat iambic pentameter,
Thoughts come faster
than hands can write…
da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM
Until adjectives lie breathing, exhausted on the page.
Until anxieties fade,
And all remaining questions
get asked of God.
It is only then,
When stuttering metrical dactyls
Screech to a comma
That life begins.
Or begins again.
This is where I find King David:
Enjambing justice and right against
“When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought me joy…”
“…the Lord has become my fortress, and my God the rock in whom I take refuge.”
Sometimes words bring trouble.
Sometimes they sort it through.
The Psalmist shoulders the gift and the burden.
(Somehow I got all this from reading Psalm 94.)