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.
