Poetry is the communication of the soul. Poetry is the sound of the soul; each time issuances are made forth from the depths of the soul, that is poetry. Let the audience encircle thy tomb whose depths run to the centre of the earth and through to the other side and awe, be petrified by your ethereal music, yea, that be your flute, blow it, blow thy deeply cherished, enriched notes.

Like water underground is adorned with minerals, let thy songs be painted and engraved with thy soul’s workings. Let thy soul be the carpenter, fashioning fantastic sculptures of truth and thy audience shall long with mouths agape, yearning a taste, a seat in magnificent vehicles that share in the substance of their source, not stale, leaving the passenger bejewelled.

Yes, there is music, there is dance, there is art, there is prose and even the deathly Science, but hear, should these be the expression of the soul, they all are poetry. Poetry; when the universe is felt within, that is, a mirthful union engrosses and the two become one so that the silence of the universe is communicated in the *Do’s* and the *Ti’s* of thy throat; is all these. In much the same way poetry is music, music is the soul’s Hermes, or dance; these just be nominals, sans value. These are the communication of that silence, the emissaries bearing messages and then be a blacksmith, moulding the silence in varying ways to fit their differing darlings. The silence is Another but the differentiation is poetry. When thou art something, all the accessories, the appendages, the accoutrements, the vestments of that something come forth automatically without exertion and with much exactitude and deliberation as to seem of eons work but merely crafted in moments of kingly kindness to share thy silence. And thou shall say ‘Let there be light’ and out of the darkness, sparkling light to blind the Devil shall outshine the stars.

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