A poet is a person who makes snapshots,
moments in a sequence spoken
like the tree falling in the forest:
kinetic images for who would listen.
Judgment has little to do with truth;
merit is wholly subjective.
We align if the music compels
an Aurora Borealis in our heads.
The point: connection to Something Else,
a journey however short or long
from ourselves, through
the Universe, and back.
Isn’t it the truth. The best art is made for oneself.
Even reading it. What does the experience bring you? You can’t know it for someone else.