A Poem's Birth

From the crux of my hand and through the pen
a poem arrives as a new-born child,
motherless child, unique in form,
ready for flight on tender wings,
shaped and cleansed by the mental storm.

I hand you immortality,
and you may give it back to me
like sisters and brothers who came before
you possess unique personality,
but you're full of me-all me really
all that I am I give to you
more and more and more and I
am fully as much as I was before

When I am gone those who listen
to you will think of me. So,
I annoint you with this special task
breathe now in your new domain
the plane through which emotions pass
so sublime, fixed in time,
compromise of truth and rhyme
motherless child of my restless mind.

Michael Draper's Questions:

1. Does the poem rhyme too much. I like to make verses rhyme, but did I overdo it?

2. Generally speaking, do you like this poem?

Thanks for your opinions.