The Meaning of Life

You’ll just know.
You’ll just…
know.

I finally know.

Intuition
like a lightning bolt,
like a realization
at the tip of my tongue
yet light-years away
and not composed of any words at all.

Reaching out to touch it,
my chest caves in
as I cross over dimensions
and break through magnetic fields.

Crushing. Imploding. Recoiling. Resounding.

The universe aligns
and I catch a glimpse
of a worm-hole
black-hole
holy grail of light.

If you open up the sun,
life as we know it
will end.

I catch my breath.

Yes.
This is it.

Arabesque

The swing of her mood

like the swing of her hips

can be sultry

seductive

but suicidal.

˜

Which way will she go?

For whom does she yearn?

˜

Transfixing

transitory

twists and turns.

˜

The beauty lies

in interpretive style:

impulse

incense

and intuition.

˜

No other rule.

No other guide.

˜

She is both Master

and Slave

to Inspiration.

Verse

Poetry
expresses truth
without committing to facts.

It is the essence
of being
resounding
from the Earth
and into
the writer’s verse.

Reality.
Duality.

Life’s symphony—
set to words.

Caesura

The perfect pause to
pivot
my thought
in the direction of
truth
which can only be
heard
in the silhouette
of silence
during the off beat
of a song
so in tune with eternity
that reality
ceases
and the melody
creases
allowing time to warp
around dimensions
of the mind
unseen
to scientists
but elucidated
by artists
through intuition
and transition
of sound.

Death of a Dancer

Inspiration
stifled and suffocated.
Energy
sidetracked and sapped.
Originality
degraded and derailed.

Creativity killed.

Artist assassinated.

Wings cut off
mid-flight.
Inkwell dried
mid-sentence.
Music paused
mid-pirouette.

Today
they murdered my muse.