Cliché

How can one put into words
something so beautiful,

so pure that to touch it

its energy would tarnish and cloud

lost by the attempt of definition

the attempt of definition unnecessary

an attempt that ought to have never been attempted

for lack of thoughts and feelings that accompany such beauty,

cause it to be a matter of taboo?

How can such pure thoughts put on paper end up withered and curled

simply because one tries to share the emotions

that pour out of such times?

How can such beautiful moments no longer be regarded as beautiful,

due to the letters, strung into words, strung into phrases

to impress just how beautiful

letters that ruin and break and spit on the graves of such beauty?

How can one's will to share with his piers

the wonders of the world

cause it to crumble and vanish like dust?

How can true happiness be shared

if happiness itself is regarded as cliché?