Elusive Illusion

What is poetry, she asks,

Distilled misery, I tell her.

Or refined joy, quips she.

Sorrow hollows the soul, said Gibran,

so its chalice can hold joy.

Poetry, I said, is shards of my soul,

being carved out,

a syllable at a time.

Her warm embrace dissolves

the rest of the words in my palate.

The fierce glow of her sun,

enlivens the darkest crevices

of my solitude.

My body may be my temple,

but she is my home.

Poetry, revised,

is Love,

or the lack of it.

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