There is no poetry left in the world. There is poetry in my heart, but when I open my mouth to let the words fly away and make a nest in someone else's tree, they have no wings to fly with. The sounds I make are rusty, frustrated attempts at a whale song in a feline world.
There is poetry in the world. The skittish deer disappearing into the woods as I ran past it on my long run last night told me so. The fleeting clouds in the sky told me so. The dirt I gathered underneath my fingernails while gardening told me so. I dig and plant seeds, so that next year there will be even more poetry in my world. Is it poetry if the words you speak are in a different language than everyone else's?
If no one hears, maybe they'll see. I use my hands to turn wool into leaves and flowers, structures and abstracts. I use my hands to turn stone into Eden. I use my hands to turn clay into screenshots of my mind. My heart speaks through my hands.
”Beautiful”, they might say. Yes, but do you see? Do you see beyond me and that which I make? Don't look at me! Do you see that I'm pointing at my heart and the poetry that longs to find others who speak the same language? Do you see the almost infinite amount of stars, the intricate details of a butterfly wing, the laughter of the one I love, all huddled up in there? Do you speak my language?