The age when fairytales collected dust on bookshelves, lined with dolls, and their painted smiles –
Along came poetry,
Through strokes of a borrowed pen, in-between the lines, it came from somewhere.
Don’t ask where, or how, or why.
Maybe she sprung from the concrete steps where I’d sit, gazing at passerbys; or the flickering light bulb from the street post; or the bare window of a brownstone across the street.
She was not a syllable, nor whisper, nor silence filling the past midnight air.
She appeared without a name, carried by the breeze blowing in my hair.
Silently, I embraced her, in my own little way.
Inviting a stranger –
I, without a purpose, or so I had always thought.
I was clumsy with words, and people, and objects –
Signs, and symbols, and pointing fingers, meaningless.
‘Til a random night,
I redefined walls around me, and saw the world in my eyes… and it touched me.
I wrote, just words mangled in their own web –
Gibberish, violent, escaping, beautiful, soul of mother, heart of father, echoes of brother.
Thoughts were instruments, composing the language of the universe, through words.
I, without a purpose, or so I had always thought –
Finally grew wings.
Infinite, and on common ground with an army of survivors, visionaries, and dreamers –
High on the mysterious search for the meaning behind the meaning.
Like stars, burning, blazing, exploding majestically, and giving birth to other stars; poems remain, burning, blazing, exploding majestically, and giving birth to other poets.
This is my ode to poetry.