The birth of poetry

A blank sheet
A word
A phrase
A verse
A stanza
A shape
A soul.
Poetry is made of hearts and dreams and thoughts
It needs a body, it needs a skin, but, more than everything
It needs a neverending personality,
It needs to be sewed in waterish knits
Which flow and fade and make no sense
Until a sense is born behind the concrete, stiff body.
Body and soul need to unite in an insane hug
To create a new being, a new entity
Born and raised by a poet’s hand.
Poetry is now born, and each eye that looks as its face
Sees a different sight, different eyes,
And, through them, sees a different soul.
Poetry is made of hearts and dreams and thoughts and eyes,
Only by them can it reach immortality.