It’s just miraculous, divine,
how symbols and sounds
and the chromas and contours in a work of art
can join hands, join in song
to worm their way inward to expose the unsheathed soul,
because the essence is a sword.
And in that case,
and in the case of the written word,
the pen is not simply mightier than the sword, the pen creates the sword. 

But how else can meaning be extracted from anything?
How else can insipid normality be enticed
into deeper thought,
better understanding,
than through art and words?
Because normality is,
Just is,
And just being isn’t enough.

We knead those
phantasmic symbols, sounds, contours, and colors
into ideas
ideas that electrify, galvanize,
sometimes all at once,
sometimes not at all.
Because some words don’t make us better.
Some paradises are better left lost.

But I’m trying to understand,
I’m trying to understand why certain citrus hues of these words and those colors,
So steeped with inner beauty,
when chiseled into a David of form,
can change the way
‘being’
‘is’

because just being
isn’t enough.

Art and the written word
forge imagination’s genesis.