The words rush toward the reader,
Slapping her with an emotion, a thought, or feeling,
Before retreating, and leaving only a trace of that emotion,
As a retreating ocean leaves a foamy marker at the high point of its surge,
The foam disappears in time, or is replaced with the marker from the next surge.
The rhythm of this repetition,
Endless and varied as the tide, in and out, and in,
Customized at creation, powered by the gravity of the moon,
Refusing to be understood, though countless men and poets have
Devoted countless years and hours to doing so, still the mystery remains.
The mystery of life, and love, and emotion and poetry cannot be solved,
And that is the beauty of the world! A discovery produces still
Another mystery, as a line in a poem produces still
Another feeling, or a thought, or an emotion,
Understood by no one, interpreted by all.
Men will continue to live and love, solve mysteries and write poetry,
As each mystery is solved, a poet will add another line
To his interpretation of life, leaving the reader
With traces of an emotion, or a feeling,
Which, in time, will also be replaced!
Phil Lindsey 12/28/16