Poetry

Feeling the poetry of life is an indelible mark, etched into the very fabric of our being, a mark we carry even when we believe we are the ones carrying it. It's a poignant realization when we attempt to shape poetry, chiseling words like sculptors, orchestrating rhymes, meticulously counting syllables, and refining verses. These words become captives, meticulously crafted for the eyes of others, seeking approval, bound by the shackles of discipline.

Yet, when we allow ourselves to be carried away, poetry transcends mere construction; it becomes intertwined with our senses, an organic extension of our very existence. Words then tear, bleed, confront, and slumber within our confusion. They stir our tranquility and revel in our solitude. In these moments, we come to understand that the true essence of life's poetry eludes our common introspection, our relentless pursuit to dissect and rationalize emotions and experiences, and our ceaseless quest to unravel the mysteries of each passing moment.

True poetry, at times, is simply the exquisite absence of meaning within the flow of time—the fleeting butterfly, the meandering river, the gentle breeze, the tender kiss, the comforting touch, the unspoken word—existing without the need for comprehension, without the urge to explain. It is in these unadorned moments that the purest poetry resides, silently whispering the profound beauty of existence.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer