The Essence

Мъничко поезия в чест на онова, което някои наричат душа, други живот, трети изживяват като необясним миг на въодушевление пред нещо по-висше от тях самите, а аз усещам като вълшебство.


I am fascinated by
The Essence.
I am madly in love with
The Essence.
The Essence is a colour explosion,
It is twitching,
It is burning
In exultation.
The Essence
Resides
Behind layers of make-up,
Of clothes,
Of flesh,
Of errors,
Of words and of looks and intentions.
A grain of Eternity
Sealed underneath.
It hides behind tree bark,
In stems and petals,
In the brick of buildings,
The glow of lanterns,
The spirit of cities.
The Essence purls
With will-power.
It is not
Appearance.
It is not
A blonde,
Nor a brunette.
It needs not shine
With a false blaze.

The Essence
Simply
Is.

And it is starving
And abundant,
And crippled,
And cheating,
And vegan,
And a handyman,
And a teacher,
And absent-minded,
And middle-aged,
And a toddler…
It is a stranger, the Essence,
It is a beggar,
A handshake,
A flash on the lips.
The Essence is my hand.
And my breath.
And it is beyond my hand and my breath.
It is your eyes.
But not their brown.
It is a light squeeze
On the shoulder.
Ethereal,
Translucent,
Melodious.
It flutters
In the Fallen
And in the Soaring,
Ever the same
And ever varying.
It tells you to rush
And to dawdle,
To scream,
Then arrest tongue in silence.
…yet for all its ambivalence,
It is ever right.
It is perfect.
Sublime.
Oh, I am deeply in love,
Madly in lust
With the Essence…