Poetry

Poetry is a restless thing, a language that stirs even when it is still. Here, words form themselves into murmurs, into echoes, into fleeting but persistent apparitions.

Some come as whispers, others shout to be heard. They unravel, they fracture, they re-form into something other, something ephemeral, something that lingers long after you've turned away.

They should be read as one reads shifting light or the forms left by a tide. They are to be sensed, even if they will not be understood.