the sum of the whole

what is life, but it is poetry;

words, deeds, feelings, 

ebbing and flowing

crashing one upon another.

full of mystery 

dark and light,

to be made sense of

if one can.

joys and sorrows mingled

tension and release

pressing and caressing

the mundane into something more. 

finding yourself in the middle

the black and white alphabet

surrounds and confounds.

cannot divine

the signs and seasons

till you are through.

only standing back

brings realization of

words and sentiments. 

but before 

when you are still in the 

mumble jumble of the between 

do not discount the pause;

each dot, dash, and tilde 

has meaning the same. 

do not gripe when you feel 

approaching monotony

for it might prove useful in the end.

till the breaking, the final period, 

no one can see the sum of the whole.