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There's a beautiful paradox in poetry, but the concept stretches beyond the page and across the human experience. The greatest poems don't explain, they approach. They edge toward what can’t be captured. They reach toward the unsayable, brushing against something profound, something we’re intuitively familiar with but struggle to articulate.
But what exactly is "the unsayable"? Answering this directly feels paradoxical—like describing silence by speaking. Yet, I’ll try, knowing full well that each word is an imperfect step toward something ultimately unreachable.
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