POETRY            

 Poetry. The language of the soul. Both a blessing and a curse, it can take you from the heights of ecstasy, to the depths of despair. This ability, created through a blend of rhythm and rhyme, is unequaled in any other art form. It touches us in a place that is otherwise unreachable. It expresses what cannot be expressed any other way.

When I do count the clock that tells the time*
And watch it creeping sinister to the right,
When I hear chimes of that foreboding rhyme,
And see the bright day turn into the night,
When I no longer see that hopes are weav'd
By whose wing'ed grace do gain flight these words,
Which give to dreams such substance that's believ'd,
And see that today's toil turns miser's hoard,
And only then shall I a question make,
Where are the gilded dreams of yesteryear?
Until then my muse I shall not forsake,
And dreams to words transcribe up to my bier
For if from death's shade there be deliverance,
It wafts in words blown by time's happenstance.

* Quoted from Shakespeare's sonnet 3.

  " If Shakespeare came back today, a lexicographer claims, he would understand only five of every nine words spoken. Few modern parents can do that well."

                                                                                                               - Changing Times, The Kiplinger Magazine