I know not what I say until it's there
Emblazoned and incarnate, soul as ink,
As heady as a garden. How I think
In pen, perhaps aloud, and words will bear
Those thoughts of which I suffer unaware.
They weigh upon a heart that's apt to sink
Heavy with a truth yet indistinct;
A challenge to myself of truth or dare.
Now cast upon the paper they are free
Where once they ran amok in charted space;
Now ordered on the page, all I impart
And I am whole at last in clarity.
O words of hope which set my heart to race,
You are incarnate now, in written art:
My illustrated heart,
For all there is of me is writ in you
And nothing I say now will e'er undo
The ink on which I drew
All my incarnate thoughts, now felt and seen
As every stroke of ink makes up my being.
postscript
For the First Annual Contest over at My prompt was "illustrations of incarnations," and here is a caudate sonnet to describe the poetry-writing process as both an illustration and an incarnation. I didn't really want to repeat "incarnate" again in the last couplet as I thought it might seem redundant, but I wanted to get the point across. What do you think?