He conjures up ideas
He tantalizes emotions
He’s the evocative straddling of punctuations and tenses
Summoning metaphors
Riding consonants, pulsing rhymes
Making me talk fast, talk slow, mess up grammar, not conform to language structures
When he allows me to dissect and internalize the complexity of his elements
He flows out of me as natural as air breathing

He defies hypocrisy and excuses
If your words are hollow and your game weak, he’ll retreat
If you can’t ride literary ecstasy, he’ll draw back
He knows only inauthenticity can displace him
If you’re true to the ebb and flow of rhythm and rhymes
If you can free flow, release conformity
He’ll come along for that Coolio fantasy “slide-slide-slippity-slide” ride

He never ages
He’s the voice proclaimed: “let there be …” and there was and still is
He’s the sound of ancestors in the lyrics of ancient orators and storytellers
He’s the polyrhythmic compositions of music
He’s the language of drums ricocheting off the songs of pharaohs and the reasonings of philosophers
He’s in the hymns of the rain, the mystique of the rainbow
He’s the beating of a timeless art

Never will I leave or deceive him
He’s my present, my past, my destiny
He’s forever a mystery
He’s my love
He is Poetry

Thanks for reading. You can interact with this post/me by hitting any of the “share this” icons below or the “like” star or “leave a comment” or “follow”.

In creative solidarity, Dee