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Poem

Risking the absurd and death in every verse,
The poet, like an acrobat, swings over the heads of
The crowd, in a world where writing is a tightrope act
And rhyme is the ladder to the lofty heavens of words.
He climbs on ropes of images, crocheting
In the fine thread woven from dreams and harmony,
Balances on beams of gazes, over an ocean
Of faces, feeling his way with dance-like steps,
Juggles with metaphors, with concept pirouettes,
All without ever confusing, magically,
The essence with the illusion.
He, the super-realist poet,
Senses the truth stretched like a violin string,
Before any motion, any scenic gesture that could
Elevate the stage just a bit higher, closer to the pedestal
Where Beauty, sovereign, dares
To begin her mortal leap - that flight over the abyss,
Charged with graceful tension.
He's the little Charlot of words,
Who may or may not catch, to his celestial form
An eternity stretched out, in the void of existence,
Finally embraced by the space of ink.
But he dares, a hero in his own poem, to walk,
Step by step, on the thin wire of fantasy,
Concentrating on reaching the vastness
Where beauty awaits to unveil itself.
And we, the spectators, remain with upward glances,
Captive in the anticipation of the supreme act,
Where every stanza, every elevated word
Is an act of tightrope walking in the void, sigh and anticipation,
Until the applause of infinity when at last,
The poet, with Beauty in his arms, concludes his celestial dance.

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