Poetry

Poetry poetry

The real beauty of poetry

Is that it knows itself

to be wholly unworthy

Of the mystery

Of which it speaks.

Yet it wraps itself around that

Eternal Secret,

Holding fast.

Holding on for dear life,

Until, inevitably,

It comes crashing down

Upon the shoreline

Where the heart of the listener

Meets the deep of the Blue Unknown.

It is not in comprehension

But it’s own death

that it finds meaning.

A holy sacrifice.

It dies that the listener,

the other,

may live.

It shatters so that the

Heart might shudder.

One’s life should, itself,

Be living poetry.