for those who seek to transcend the snapshot of time in which they happen to exist, the ruins tell a tragic story of mockery and desperation. ruins are a testimony to how the moment, however long or short it might be, can only be lived but not captured. which, to me, is also the point of poetry. it is a gift of the moment, poetry, which is something quite other than the moment of its conception. an orphan artifact that resists the destruction of time, out of which it was created, albeit temporarily. a strange fruit born out of that which has come to pass, remaining behind as a eulogy. an elusive piece of everyday magic, which we get to see only if we believe it. poetry is defiance. of the tyrannical spell of realism that reality casts upon us. it is a willful failure to tell the story of the forces that conspire in its creation, knowing full well that the attempt is doomed from the beginning. (and should one decide to try anyway, we have prose for that art of futility.) poetry is a form of seduction that tempts one into recognizing the strangeness of ordinary experiences. an invitation to infuse what otherwise are empty vessels— words—with the scents of the singularly unique life we each get to live. poetry is the lure of oblivion calling our attention to the mysteries of what still is here—before it all turns into dust in the end.