A poem starts with a line, a word, a tempo,
It crescendos into a frenzied pitch and combusts along the divinity of its description,
There’s a journey, a discovery, a little excursion from the norm of reality, it’s a painting, a canvas filled and stretched with passion, and blazing with colors.
It teaches you, heals you, makes you rise in the battle of love and fall into the emotional chaos of all that lays in the gentle romance of two souls.
It starts with the meeting of blood on paper and has no true ending, because truth be told, only the poet knows what the next stanza will be, only the poet holds the real key.
A poem starts with bleeding of love… and never ends.
softly-transcending 