If It Wasn't For Poetry

If it were not for writing, I would remain as I am, voiceless wanderer, lost in chatter; no different than meditation, mere spectator of unfolding drama, chopping wood, carrying water. My common thoughts would linger, trapped, in silent vacuity; same as enlightenment's unmarked footprints, unnoticed, on a deserted shore, washed away, by an indifferent tide, chopping waste upon water. In the quiet curls between verses, lying hushed as a wake, authenticity unravels, reminiscent of gurus, tangled up threads of resonance, only the art of words provides; in this vain exertion, I find liberation and its sister, inspiration, too, splintering kindling, shouldering streams.