If there’s no more wonder, then there are no more poems.
And what is wonder but a simple curiosity?
With a splash of something else that makes the curiosity animated.
That splash could be a belief in meaning.
But if no belief is true and meaning a farce, then wonder is a trick of the mind.
A useful trick.
One that compels the walking man to walk further.
One that takes imagination and makes nodding heads and an audience out of rose buds on bending branches.
One that sees itself in the glassy eyes of random animals like pets and park rodents.
One that sees a wild, unknown story in the eyes of the woman on the playground.
The pulsing back of those eyes to his must be something more than just sight to sight.
More than sense apparatus to sense apparatus.
A faint smile beneath those eyes betraying a mutual pleasure of wonder.
And often times keeping it frozen there to preserve a fantasy.
To keep a potential kiss perfect and unrealized.
Yet preventing the realization of other wonders.
Playing god-like by halting the god movements.
Denying Brahman his drama of dance.
