A poem can mean so much and so little
So simple and so complex
So many colors drifting around the words
There's that moment, that moment at the end of a poem
When the world hangs on the brink of perfection
And all is still, all is quiet
All those colors blend in to each other
It's that moment when everything is just as it should be
And when it passes, you feel a twinge of sadness
And your heart hangs in the sky
Waiting for the next moment of silence
Waiting, waiting, for the next moment of perfection
The next poem, and with the building intensity, the expectation of the poem
It stops, so suddenly, so unexpectantly, yet so prepared for
And that moment comes once more
That moment of perfection
That moment of utter peace
That moment, that proves just how quiet
A poem can be.
