What makes poetry work?
Is it the sound of words?
What euphony without discord
What beauty without opposites,
When a frozen sun melts into a crimson sky,
Or when the poet talks about
Scenes that made moments mean,
Or moments tied together to make up a scene.
Is it the contemplating of your place in the world,
Or a place where the world is still together?
The beauty in fragments is only found
When fragments is all that is left.
Does the poet seek an answer,
Or does the poet know that there are none?
Just yourself among broken things,
Trying to find
Or maybe poetry is all about
Leaving one naked and exposed.
Words that strip your soul
Until you are empty, hollow,
Waiting for something new,
Till the next one leaves you emptier still.
What if poetry is all about destroying yourself
To create that one moment of pure art.
Is that not what it’s all about?