What are you?
Poetry is what is spoken when your thoughts cease to become words.
It is the sound your heart makes when a love that isn’t ephemeral,
Blossoms like a rose in your heart.
Thorns and all.
Poetry is what you feel when the stars tell the moon that their love is infinite. When darkness wraps the sky and fondles it with a blanket of that infinity.
Poetry is the music that is heard when the sound of the violin of your soul,
Plays a mosaic scalaic pattern that is incomprehensible to Music itself.
Poetry is the sound your ghungrus make when your foot jumps in the air;
While your slender fingers bend gracefully, dancing to the sound of the mellifluous world.
"Poetry", I said one day.
"Are you more like the summer that blossoms into Spring?".
"Or the red leaves of Autumn that turn white when Winter rides his sleigh?"
"I am what you feel when you dance with wildflowers in your hair,
your feet glistening under the exuberance of the sun and blue, ethereal skies."
"I’m the Earth that nurtures the flowers that grow on his
Yellow, red and pink eternal body."
"I’m the streets that turn into crusts of brown sugar, when
Every leaf becomes a flower, and every branch becomes a bouquet."
"But you know what?", said Poetry.
"I’m also Death who tramples the world
With nothing but the whiteness of it all.