What is the poem?
The words which ring with rhyme:
the unending stanzas whose meaning
thrives beyond the limits of the lines?
The metaphor which spills beyond the fullstop?
The strokes of ink, bold and courageous,
immortalizing the blank paper
with radical and rash wisdom?
Just strokes and words.
But are those qualities of words?
Unending, and overflowing.
Emotionally limitless.
Hanging forever in the air.
No. That is not the poem.
Neither are those words, nor
the gaps in between.
The poem is not the idea living within,
it is not the strokes of ink.
The poem is the part of ambiguity:
a part of its writer\'s soul.
Each one which written is a horcrux:
a part of the soul hidden within its words.
By writing, the poet-
he does not immortalize the paper:
He immortalizes himself: lively with rhyme.