POETRY

Poetry is the music of literature; every word a note, every form an octave. It plays upon the heartstrings of world and beckons minds to harken to its many messages. Each message is a valiant truth, aspiring to explain the endless, beautiful confusion that both besets and blesses the realm of humanity. Feel free to feel curious and explore the messages composed. Dissect and mutilate them until they are but tattered scraps; they will endure. For each poem is a passage from eternity, and is itself eternal.

Across the breadth of time human-kind has tried its hand at explanation, however vain or futile it may be. With steady hands, before our tongues were deft, we scraped stone and brushed paint, eager to share our observations of the majestic and mundane alike. We reached out to the celestial and the ethereal that encompassed and composed us, but without the equipment of language we could only reach so far. It is at the inception point of language that we perfected our ability to convey and construe; that our ideas found fruition. Thus was our reach extended. The truthfulness or falsity of what we reach is arguable by those with enough audacity to protect their beliefs, but the reach itself cannot be controverted. And it is when we write poetry that we reach the furthest.