To The Poetic Goddess George Poem by Thabani Khumalo

I draw my words from a broken back and a wounded pride,
I meander the spurs to either pounce or often fail and cry.
I draw my words from broken bones
and a charge of decaying bodies of diminishing hope.

I mourn the moans of an old life lost long
and all my dreams are deep forlorn from the deliverer of ill -
for long I've learned the agonies of my crumbling soul.

I am a king without a kingdom to rule
so I roam the roads and waste the truth on homeless men.
I pray between the blankets like a craven boy
and look between the hooray`s nest for my life lost long.

I hold a pen and ascribe in characters faint
how much of my spine has perished in the fire,
for I have felt the fire burn continuously
for a third decade of living on the land.

A deadly ghost I trod the earth
on her vain tracks like a moron crowned and ordained.
I ask too long and learn too little.
I prayed for words and the words were farther hid.
I turned and wondered ruminatedly
upon the glorious follies of the almighty Gods.

To the Poetic Goddess George -
beam of clarity, pillar of rhetoric -
please give me an answer to the question I pose, Taylor it to me in words of character and characters of bolds:

Is it true that I might not be a poet at all,
or am I simply trying to redefine my being
in a different form of a prayerful thrust?
Is it true that my redeemer lives?
For I heard my name in an old song and I got confused,
the children of the future asking of me to redeem their souls.

I know you have the answer because
you are able to weave a waving pattern
of such healthy and colorful words to describe
the mysterious works of a human being possessed of a poetic thrust...
Is there a secret to this way of thought?