One more time I am bold enough to cherish your image in spirit,
        I tire myself out bringing back a dream,  not without sorrow or anxiety I continue
        pointing out what our love was.
        Our many years do fly, they go on changing, they change everything, they change ourselves.
        Just yesterday I was still singing your person, but today I see you be shrouded in a sepulchral shadow,
        Yesterday you were a friend, today you are just a faded fire.
        My companion henceforth remote, just take in my farewell, that my heart addresses to you,
        like a widowed wife could do to a friend who embraces his friend
        meekly at the very doorstep of a prison house.

This is a poem by Pushkin; it might be a Word by the Father reminding mankind, the Child that abandoned Him (Rev of Arès 2/1-5, vii/7-11), that they erstwhile used to love each other. Which of the Father or Pushkin draws his inspiration from either ? This has never been mentioned anywhere, but I think that the man-poet replicates the God-Poet. because he is His image and likeness (Genesis 1/26). Poetry gives one more proof of the kinship between Life (Rev of Arès 24/3-5) and life.
Besides, the Word cannot be but poetic, for to words, which stop in brains, poetry adds a song that goes on down to hearts. Now, the heart is the seat of life, a mirror of Life (Rev of Arès 24/3-5).

Marxian poet Pablo Neruda while making his speech to the Nobel Academy said, "A poet is not a little god. His destiny is not greater than that of people with any other jobs. The best poet is the human being that provides us with daily bread, the baker." This was a statement from a ration­alist, but one breaking out beyond himself tormentedly, who feels the hot breath of love from the bread oven when opened. His poems "Cien sonetos de amor" dedicated to the woman he loved, Matilde Urrutia, are breathtakinglyly beautiful and well beyond any craft. So doing Neruda woke up the Father Whom he had knocked out deep inside hinself. His poetry cleanses him, spreads him like the Spread One (Rev of Arès ii/4) beyond matter, propels him between here and the infinite.
Poetry is the only means that man has, whether he is a  believer or an unbeliever, to be clearer than his inadequate language and express his hope for a good world. So the Father likewise is the First to use poetry. For a few years I was disconcerted by the terse Message of the Theophanies (1977) until I understood its formal nature:  It is a poem. The people who nowadays find it incomprehensible or messy, have to understand its poetic nature as well.
Does the Word have another means to move people in a highly dramatic scope? Life has to look for ways to bring the rebellious being back to the Being That is ultimately faithful. So Life strives to seek strong surpassing means. Poetry is a strong surpassing means.
I as a poet am not worth a dime. Nevertheless, although I am a pitiful philistine, I like the poetry that the true Word has helped me learn. Previous to 1974 I had not missed that poetry, I had never dreamt of it; I had never been biblicalpoetry-sensible. The poetry of Arès's Word just happened to me as the blazing glint of the Light of Life, Which aeons ago probably used to keep Eden with no days or nights just as the Earth of men will be kept after the Day (Rev of Arès 31/8) when the time rife with one-eyed materialism, rigged rationalism and humanism vanish.  Good will reign again then. Science, which is the queen today, is just a faint glow changed into imperious frenzy — who could ignore it in covid-19 times? —; it is just a ridiculous candle in front of the sun. The busy pursuit of truth about human life — what is it from? where does it go? — died with Socrates. Plato rang its bells one last time and, even though there has been a few echoes of it since then (Buddha, Adi Shankara, Spinoza, etc.), they will not peal out like a sublime poem until we succeed in dispelling the tenebrae through which we are crawling.
The poetry of the Word is much more than a special turn of writing or recitation standing for a special meaning; it brings about Life, makes language lively by giving it that which Plato called "forms" ou "ideas" when he wrote that "first there exists what forever stays the same as an idea, and what is never born or dead, or never receives anything from elsewhere, or never goes anywhere, or is inaccessible to eyesight or another sense, and which is only perceived by intelligence; furthermore, what stays sensitive, is born, constantly moves, suddenly appears and then disappears, is accessible to man's mind and is backed up with sensation" (Timaeus). In other words, poetry is never young or old; it stays vibrant ad infinitum and lives beyond time; this is very obvious in poems by Homer, by David (psalms), both of them were poets at the same time, or by Muhamad, but they are still poets nowadays, wear-free aedes.
The ancient love of wisdom (φιλοσοφία, philosophy), which was always poetic, has been substituted by the authority of  dull obscure reasonings and coded prattlings between scholars, politians, administrators, scientists, judges, clerics, etc., all those which are called serious who speak seriously. I am aware that I run idle just as The Revelation of Arès does in the current world, which does not know what to do with this book and me as the witness of its Messenger, Living Jesus (1974), and of Life (1977). Intelligence is not offside in our penitent harvesting activity, instead we are onside. But in the wordly concrete where the Word of Arès very slowly breaks through only poetry, not necessarily in words but at least in life, gives it the capability of working its way. Within the dark we are still barely invisible and soundless. The same is true of the Maker Father, Life, God, the Totally Other, Logos, the Eternal, I-am-who-I-am, Who knows that He will not be listened to, at all, if He fails to make His Word poetic.