what even is poetry?
theres a metaphorical dust that settles on the edge of a glass when it waits.
an unloved drink waiting to be something important.
a crafted liquid waits for the death in its constumption.
you can admire it.
endlessly bitter and sharp.
it's flavour, try as they will, can never truly be hidden.
the dust disappates as the drink is cherished.
raised in celebration, sipped with deliberate care, held like an accessory.
loved.
loved until it exists no longer.
it burns itself into chemical bliss.
chemical that fades and is forgotten like its host.
never admired.
the beauty in its untouched self.