Opus–The Quintessence of Poetry

There are no words. The air, as thin as lines
composed of quintessential, distant dreams
is probably the path, devoid of signs
which flows beside our quintessential streams.
There are no words; The paths and streams converge.
A prophecy of silence draws me in.
Surrender is the quintessential urge
that marks the end where thus I can begin.
The words that form are beautiful and bright
like pearls and diamonds strung on silver thread.
They sparkle in the quintessential night
that quintessential darkness overhead.
And in the quiet birth of every word
a hint of quintessential faith is heard.

First published on: Jan 4, 2008 @ 21:17
(minor grammatical changes)

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