I have screamed in the wilderness of experience, among the untrodden paths, and I have called it poetry.

I have lifted my eyes to the heavens, in a single glance of trust amidst the lightning and thunder, and I have called it poetry.

I have poured forth my broken heart, and mind, and very self, onto the blank page, disregarding all structure, syntax, and genre, and I have called it poetry.

I have whispered along with the susurrations of the spring-time leaves, whispering that I love Thee, despite the agony, and I have called it poetry.

I have bared my heart wide open before Thee, the noblest of kings, and Thou hast healed my broken heart, shard by shard, and I have called it poetry.

 

I have called Beauty by name and bid her to come out from under the shadow of the reddened wood, so that all the world may see, and love, and believe, and I have called it poetry.

And Thou hast looked into my eyes, and I have looked into Thine, and Thou hast ever so gently laid Thy hand upon my tearstained cheeks, which Thou didst form from dust, and Thou hast called me poetry.