Poetry is Mona Lisa,
timeless,
alive,
beautiful, mysterious and sometimes chaotic,

Poetry is the garden of secret,
full of craved trees with memories
of yesterday, today or tomorrow,
memories of dancing to the joyous melody in the living room
or memories of weeping due to sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

Poetry is the purple hand
touching the haggard and joyous souls,
towering hearts on cold dark night and sunny loud night,

Poetry is a diary
to souls impotent to pour the spectrum
of colors in the heart and mind
onto blank paper.