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 itโs 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.
Oneโs life should, itself,
Be living poetry.
