Poetry is a language poised against anxiety

Beauty and perfection are not within reality

She seems afraid to join hands with them and celebrate tonight

She lingers like a curtain in the hallway with her hunger -- disconnected from the members, focussed on her vantage point

Quietly her heart breaths passion, restlessly yet thoughtfully

Poetry is a home for ravens, scavengers, and honey bees

Elegance and quantity are not related mathematically, but she wants companions and she dreams of royalty

Trapped behind oblivion she has forgotten her paperwork

They clink and chatter and blink thick lids while she devours the hours til moonlight gives way to too bright and headaches and blueblack laughter

Beauty is a relative and virtue is a skeleton

To maneuver fate with shovels and long vowels is harmful to humanity and useless in the scheme of things

So she leaves her shadow with her decency and finds the world to be a fragile venue for her masterpiece

They cast her down, they buy her drinks and teach her what she ought not to be

But she has learned curiosity from the creatures in her hiding place

Poetry breeds honesty laced between the mystery -- a canopy of harmony that some can taste but none can see

Faith once lost is like a misty day within which grows an injured beast

Giving up the pointless game she clambers back to a final release

She thanks the ghosts of dreams and “might have beens” and clears the throat of propriety for one last obligatory pleasantry:

The time is good for change and triumph. Be not afraid to make your way to majesty. I depart from this facade sorrowfully. Be what I could not be, for lives of practicality do not necessarily lack all trace of poetry.