Confession

Let me confess the limits of my art:
No sonnet can usurp a lover's kiss.
No epic can replace the hero's heart,
Or cleanse the soul like fire when man's remiss.
And can the funeral dirge bring back the dead
Like Lazarus raised by the Nazarene?
And can it take the words we left unsaid
Across the threshold of our mortal dreams?
Yet still I build this temple made of pages
And sacrifice the vespers and the days.
This acolyte, whose struggles are his wages,
Forsakes this world and all its gold and praise
To win a place within your sacred heart,
And touch the utmost limits of my art.  

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4j4zj4/flying_fish/d34c0vu
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4j3a89/eulogy/d34bchv