Poetry is the only window compatible with the human soul,
A raging inferno who’s winds pull at our burning flesh,
Stripping it layer by layer,
Until what dwells beneath is unearthed.

A gentle cooling breeze,
A pitiful dying scream,
A bubbling stream,
A sobbing widow.
An unconquered snowy mountain,
A struggling child drowning,
A boiling hot spring,
A putrid stale miasma,
Poetry is a vast emerald forest,
Engorged with life,
And a stretch of black scorched earth,
Where life cannot thrive.

Poetry,
Like the starry infinity of the universe,
Encompasses all of creation.
There is no emotion that cannot be called forth,
Whether as a blessing from the cloudy heavens above,
Or a cacodæmoniacle beast from the deepest of hells,
By the immeasurable power of the poet’s pen.