Poetry Is…. Intangible. Invisible chords rip through body, mind, and soul, Gripping all that is substance within And churning it, Molding it into paper and pen.   Indelible. Stains of blood-soaked ink splattered onto pages The hurried marks of a novice. Scratches on white, The birthing of woman into Goddess.   Quintessential. Shards of crystalline ...