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| Image / Min An |
Poetry-like Flowers with Olive Tree-like Powers
Words build bridges like bridges build worlds,
All taken for granted when dialogue is forsaken.
It was the poet's duty to retain compassion in their margins,
So when the zeitgeist spoke, it could never be mistaken.
Beauty melting in warmth, as stars bask in baskets of light,
Ecstatic will makes contact with forms cast in delicate moulds sealed tight.
The caveat, like the cave painting, is that creativity leaks,
Formless, but tortured for all that it speaks.
At the contours, nuance begging for relief.
Fear feverishly corroded like rust—today the rain spared us.
Upon reflection, I felt what those poems did for you
And you know what that prose did for me.
Redshifted existential blues,
Imbued with depth to magnify contextual clues,
Even in a dead language trapped in history.
Permission to grow the rose with humility,
Even in the unforgiving sands of the Sahara.
Codebreakers made sacrifices to crack samsara,
Reached the boundary, but lost it all upon return.
Go again, as you inscribe time-bound spells spewing fleeting context
Like the unseen geometry that shaped your eyes.
Even then in the folds of the most cerebral cortex
Or in iterations that speak to no one.
Such peace, granted again and again.
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