Evergreen

Poetry substantially changes my balance Ever bringing me to my senses In times of critique, I have said, Let a poem rest In peace To raise a poem from the dead, Is to pull it out of time Archaic words and terms, Bones without flesh, Cannot be fitted with proper decorum Etiquette in terms of the writers point of reference, Is stillborn, Looked over by those who read in the here and now As holy scripture was handed down, With life and death, As it's bread Blood and tears, As it's waters of salvation Yet look, Oh, just how many interpretations are there? Yes, indeed, As it is a living book, I realize that a poem has never died at all, It being a gift passed along to all who choose to partake And so, It belongs to all, Each one, To mold, To shape, To cherish, Or hate, For no poetry is put to rest, Unless it goes unwritten