Poetry (Again, I Know)

This

sends ice down my spine,

makes me shiver

even in southern summers,

raises gooseflesh

all fire and smoke

wonder

at the intricate beauty of words.

This is precisely why

I love poetry so much.

It never fails to

destroy me.

That might sound like a bad thing,

but the destruction in itself is beauty,

The way a storm is beautiful.

The way panic is beautiful.

If not beautiful, captivating.

Captivating for no particular reason.

A dangerous beauty.

A chaotic beauty.

Electric skin and

burning bones,

Fire&ice&blood&flesh,

all dressed in the clothes

of words,

delicately carved

and spoken

with whispered promises.

The way it

rings true like nothing else,

beckons secrets out of souls,

spits them out like wildfire,

raging and pure.

Unchecked and free,

making us all

envy poems

at some point,

wishing we

could be

that kind of beautiful.