There is a silent street
Where poets go
And a tiger color of light
Rains down, a search
That is never found
Via symbols at the end
Of literature and pages
Mere metaphors for
The creative process
Of image and narrative
The act of encapsulation
Experience, such a myth
Like memory, only a ripple
Of the original, so the authors
Glimpse something unreal
And seek to translate it
But the poets know, they
Will never come through
Their vertigo of dream
Writing in the wind
On the sand in the desert
Catching reflections in the river
Of the sky, the essence
Is forever lost, of each moment
Only we can approximate
In art, part of the beauty
Of creation and hunt persecuted
Through time, the testaments
OF sun, wheat, flower, pomegranate
Bumble-bee, united at the same
Address, of autumn on a terrace
Somewhere near you.
Wuji Seshat 