May 16

Poetry (Again, I Know)

sends ice down my spine,
makes me shiver
even in southern summers,
raises gooseflesh
all fire and smoke
at the intricate beauty of words.
This is precisely why
I love poetry so much.
It never fails to
destroy me.
That might sound like a bad thing,
but the destruction in itself is beauty,
The way a storm is beautiful.
The way panic is beautiful.
If not beautiful, captivating.
Captivating for no particular reason.
A dangerous beauty.
A chaotic beauty.
Electric skin and
burning bones,
all dressed in the clothes
of words,
delicately carved
and spoken
with whispered promises.
The way it
rings true like nothing else,
beckons secrets out of souls,
spits them out like wildfire,
raging and pure.
Unchecked and free,
making us all
envy poems
at some point,
wishing we
could be
that kind of beautiful.