Panageric Objectives Enforcing Metaphorical Sentiments
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Poetry is music on paper; a painting in words; a canvas of velvet; a
calligraphy of in stanzas, emotional, spiritual, psychological. A
serene mosaic of pathos and diligence; a dazzling symphony of metaphors and
analogies; an overlapping collage of allegories and anecdotes. It's a
sprinkle of harmony, depression, pain and love.
With this pen and paper, the writer begins his task; the knight sets
off on his journey. The sunrise is the pen and the brush, the horizon its
canvas, the skyline its borders and the sunset the strokes.
Each letter transforms into butterflies, scattering like a deck of
cards flickered in the air, dispersing like fireflies, taking flight for the
first time. Similar to soft pillows of cotton flowers blown in the wind.
They nibble on rose petals and hummingbirds sipping and bathing in nectar.
A sweetness that cannot be captured by any letters of the alphabet or
any word in a novel.
Poetry can seize the unfathomable; withstand the unbearable; redeem
the unforgivable; trust the doubtable and embrace the uncertain.
It can build castles out of magic, create kingdoms out of handfuls
of soil, waterfalls with just drops of water, gardens with a single
flower and the skies with only a breath of oxygen.
It makes you see the music and listen to the dance. It merges your
being into the fibres and paint of a portrait. It breathes life into your
heart and fills your breath with sound.
It gives knowledge to the brain and wisdom to your mind and the
insight to tell the difference.
It's a bridge between the imagination and dreams.
The largest house ever built was the mind; the largest door ever
opened was the imagination. Where creativity is the pearl gleaming like cat's
eyes at midnight, nestled inside the clam's velvet haven undisturbed.
It's the wind in your sails, the sunlight piercing through the ocean's
surface in narrow golden veils, shimmering off the scales of schools
of fish tagging in formation. Where the seas flow through the Heavens, and
stars dance around the sun and planets, orbitting around each other in
precision synchronization of a Swiss watch or piano keys made of smooth, cold
Language is a ribbon and knowledge is a bow, wrapping a gift that's a
window for the reader and a door for the writer.
I bleed ink.