Nothing quite serves the purpose that poetry does…
What would you substitute for it?
Perhaps memory, or the rain, or music—a lone man playing piano on a dark street?
There are times I have cravings, like some crave pickles or peanut butter, I yearn to linger inside language.
Images flash across the mind like a fireflies on summer night long ago,
circling around words, words falling
endlessly,
quietly,
in the secret heart of the mind.
A Life of Wonder 
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