The first true sign of love is anger:
What we need, we're likely to resent.
Each needing, needed, leaned on, leaning,
No longer free standing stone and white.
The wistful, tender fear of finity
Yields a darker shimmer of sublimity.
Now indeed some sunny, delicate blight inaugurates a subterranean keening.
None can turn away and not be bent,
Each in each part self, part untouched stranger. Poetry challenges our brain to think outside its comfort zone. Our brains like to stitch information together in a rational form, poetry clashes head on with your brain and forces it to look at emotions not as an abstract feeling but as a tangible object that we can relate to. Poetry is like a cavern, if you have a flashlight you still won’t be able to fully study its meaning for existence. You need something more, something brighter like your brain. Your brain will take bits of information and weave it together like a puzzle until something rational is both reasonable and likely.