Words of the Wounded

Words cocoon us, surround us with feelings unlike any phenomenom.

Yet, as we make these miniscule yet piercing sounds, we beg the question;

How will we rise?

These verses, these sonnets, these limericks enchant yet alarm us.

We understand that to be human is to be everchanging, never the same being.

You and I will never be the same creatures we were the day before, 

just as we will be different creatures on the next.

Poetry capsulates these ideals, these ancient words past down from generation to 

generation, breathing new life into the future. 

But yet, the question still burns heavy in our hungry hearts, searching for the next,

How will we rise?

The art of poetry teaches me that I am who I am.

I am the everchanging being.

I am the constantly reformed creature, never stagnant in its pursuit.

I am the hungry heart, seaching for my next. 

As these words are written and pored over, 

Poetry leaves this heart of mine and overflows into the minds of men.

Inspiring us to ask,

How will we rise?