Poetry is always new. It is never read as it was intended. It freshens itself by its mere existence, time after time. But you may still enjoy poetry in profound ways that were never intended and that may transcend the inspiration of its inception. For those images and metaphors, which excite sensations that you’ve never known are stabs of joy, impaled into the soul by a bleeding blade that heals the wound as it exits. A flash of light and thunder that is seen only for that one instance: Crystalline, pure, and original for only that moment and never again fresh in the same way, never again the same euphoria.