Magic, a higher being, the super natural, super powers, a psychic sixth sense.
All of the above are phenomena whose existence we question.
However they exist, they exist in poetry.
As naive as the world is, consumed in their routines of work, running their little races and failing to stop and notice the magic that unfolds every time a poem is born,
Born out of sadness,
Born out of happiness,
Born out of anger,
Born out of beauty,
Born out of love,
Born out of boredom,
Born from the heart.
To love or to destroy but most of all,
To make a person or entity immortal.
The marriage of words just to convey how the oceans roar on the beach yet gently cradle the tiniest of creatures in its deepest current is magic incarnate.
And to possess this ability is a responsibility.
A responsibility not of protecting and nurturing the art but letting it run wild and free of any reins.
Like a flock of birds migrating, or a lioness hunting her prey.
Free falling, tumbling, tripping, breaking into little sparks of glitter from the rainbows.
Contaminating this monochrome world.
The next time you read a poem, it’s okay if you feel victimized by its emotions.
It might make you fall in love, or make you feel beautiful, you may dream of the impossible or you may cry. Get consumed in that moment for it is okay to feel and fantasize, we are human after all.
In constant search of a saving grace.
