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Poetry Is A Place — Where Words Get Eternalized, In All Their Imperfections
A prose poem of the words, by the words, for the words…
Condemned to inglorious existence, words are sentenced to trite texts.
In another life, they hope to line the edicts to make a proud living. In some reincarnations, they are planted in bedtime stories, thus ennobled. Other times, lead a life of discomfiture in bad language.
The world spins on the colligation of words. Love transpires. Words collocate to create hate, sorrow, and happiness. A coalition leads to war, a division to a truce. Silent tombs with welled-up potential energy — they erupt in all colors on gainly eloquence.
Spent words die an instant death. To be cast aside as chaff, de-husked of their essence — Empty shells, having discharged their firepower. Crisp and succulent at birth, stale and desiccated with each reading, words sacrifice themselves at the altar of knowledge.
A word is born — dies a thousand deaths, before a streak of creativity scribes it to a verse. There — prosaic coils shuffled, it transmigrates to poesy, attains immortality. Glowing in authenticity, even in its imperfections — Where — it is indelibly framed, in poetic forms, along with its fellows — chosen likewise, and the cheeky punctuations that found their way to redemption.
Inspired by the title of this wonderful post (on a totally different subject):
