To me ….. poetry ……. is …..

To me ….. poetry ……. is …..

….. an echo of dark and bright that escapes uncut diamonds within us
……. the shadow of a pen, held up to the moon, during an eclipse
….. reflected dew on mirrors, during warm winter days
……. carving dragon tattoos on clouds that travel against the wind
….. etching words on driftwood that will seek unknown beaches
……. composing music for instruments that will never exist
….. that explosion of destinies and emotions, sparing frail souls
……. an alpine lake at midnight, reflecting starlight from aeons dead fierce novae

To me ….. poetry ……. exists …..

……. to remind all hearts, that they must conduct crimson passions as pounding symphonies

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