Poetry hunkers down behind the freshly finished facade of language; each link to the lexicon lovingly chiseled into the smooth, grey stone. Here, precision reigns over all.
Vainly held in place for the length of a reading, the facade glides toward a shimmering white dot on the horizon.The perfect poem, perhaps? Here, perspective precipitates all.
Like quicksand, a marshy morass of words ***** at the poet's feet as he strains to match the facade's pace, stride for muddy stride. If he succeeds, pride will power all.
Poetry is breath, inadequately lodged in the poet's ever-shrinking body. Reading wrests the silent syntax, inhales form through its viscera, exhales metaphor and rhyme. Like becomes like, becomes all.
Critics aside, the poem thrives as a living organism; it breathes itself far beyond the face of the facade; it swirls into the stratosphere, flying straight toward the cosmos' breathless edge. Here, the getting of wisdom is all.