Has it ever occurred to you
That we’re looking at life through a keyhole?
This rusty world
Isn’t what it’s meant to be.
Any beauty we see
Are traces of something far greater
And far more wonderful
Than us or this broken world around us.
We are peering at life
Through a small sliver.
As long as we draw breathe
We have no perspective
Of what is to come.
For the opening is far too small
For us to even understand.
The reality of poetry is nothing is ever new
Every word before the formation of the language was thought of and known.
The reality of poetry is it has all been written.
The reality of poetry is you are not actually writing. You are pointing.
To what are you pointing?
Something bigger and more beautiful than what is before your eyes
The world you see is a painting
And what else is a painting for but to reveal the heart of the painter.
And so that’s what I hope to do
With every syllable
And Every pen stroke
To reveal the heart of the painter
By the Brooke 