a beautiful poem is a key
that does not turn in a lock
but makes the lock aware
of its own mechanism.
It holds no final truth,
only the shape of a question
pressed into the reader's hand
like a cool,
smooth stone.

Its value is not in solution,
but in the shared tension
of a contradiction
that every soul recognizes
but has never named.
It does not preach status;
it highlights the perpetual,
trembling status
of being alive
in a world of shadows and constant,
faint light.

It is the connection itself,
the circuit completed
in the silent space
between the ink and the eye,
a current that illuminates
without demanding
what you see.

a beautiful poem is a tiny baby's hand,
with five tiny fingers,
his or her tiny face,
that baby' smile with no teeth at all.