the odd moment of beauty

If I could write poetry,
I’d etch it in notes, play it on keys,
the piano strings of human folly,
telling stories as waves crash.
And in those moments—the odd of the beauty—
you’d stumble on the tablet of silence,
realize just how precious it is, that last second,
eyes closing, to know
the only thing worth saving
is the gentle smile of someone you love.

In the end, it’s not about the chase,
it’s about gathering these moments,
the strange, fleeting beauty they hold,
that we must cherish.
When the final pulse of blood
runs through your veins,
your heart gives its last beat,
and you hold tight to every memory,
passing the baton of beauty to others,
so they can search, find, and hold their own.