I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical

Host: The library was ancient, its ceiling high and arched like a cathedral, filled with dust, echoes, and the faint smell of old paper. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, fracturing into bands of color that painted the floor like forgotten verses.

At the center, among rows of books and shafts of golden light, sat Jack and Jeeny — their voices hushed, yet alive with the quiet fire of conversation.

Between them, a leather-bound volume of Edgar Allan Poe lay open, a quote underlined in fading ink:

“I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.”
— Edgar Allan Poe

Jack ran his fingers over the page, his expression unreadable. Jeeny watched him with a kind of gentle curiosity, as if waiting for something to begin.

Jeeny: softly “Poe understood something most people miss — that poetry isn’t about language, it’s about music. It’s the heartbeat behind the words.”

Jack: leans back, eyes half-closed “Or maybe it’s just a way of pretending that words can do what silence already does better.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “You always find the darkest corner of every idea.”

Jack: “Poe would approve.”

Host: The light from the window shifted, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air — tiny particles of time that looked almost alive, as if breathing to some unseen rhythm.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Poe wasn’t just dark — he was musical. He believed that beauty had a rhythm, a pulse, something that moved inside the listener, even if it came from pain.”

Jack: quietly “Beauty’s a dangerous rhythm, Jeeny. It lures, it hypnotizes, but it never heals. Poe’s poetry wasn’t about creation, it was about haunting.”

Jeeny: leans forward, intrigued “You really think beauty can’t heal?”

Jack: “No. I think beauty is a kind of sickness — a sweet fever that makes you forget the world’s ugliness, for a while. But the world doesn’t change when the verse ends.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you change. Even for a moment. Isn’t that enough?”

Jack: “Temporary change isn’t redemption, Jeeny. It’s escape.”

Host: A clock somewhere in the library ticked, steady as a heartbeat, marking the silence that followed.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s afraid to be moved.”

Jack: “No. I talk like someone who’s seen how easily we’re deceived by what’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re here — quoting Poe in a library at sunset.”

Jack: smiles, bitterly “Touché.”

Host: The light shifted again, a beam falling directly on the open page, illuminating the single word — Beauty.

It seemed almost to glow, as if alive, as if Poe’s ghost had returned to listen.

Jeeny: reading aloud softly “‘The rhythmical creation of Beauty.’ You see, he didn’t say invention or construction. He said creation — like it’s something born, something that breathes.”

Jack: rubbing his temple “And then it dies. Just like everything else we create.”

Jeeny: gently “But death doesn’t make it worthless, Jack. Maybe that’s what rhythm means — the rise and fall, the breath and silence, the beginning and ending. Poetry is just a mirror of life.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: The light had begun to fade, and the shadows of the bookcases grew long and deep, stretching across the floor like the lines of an unfinished poem.

Jack: “You know, I once met a poet in Prague. He told me poetry was just loneliness with better grammar.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “That’s cynical even for you.”

Jack: “He wasn’t wrong. People write poetry to reach, to touch, to fill something missing. But what they find, more often than not, is just the echo of their own voice.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the echo is the point. You send something into the void, and it comes back changed. That’s the rhythm Poe meant — the motion between you and the emptiness.”

Jack: “So beauty is a conversation with nothingness?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a conversation with hope.”

Host: The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken — that strange tension between faith and doubt, between the word and the feeling it tries to hold.

Outside, a flock of birds rose suddenly from the trees, their wings beating in perfect unison — a silent verse written across the evening sky.

Jack: watching through the window “You ever think maybe beauty’s just a trick of timing? Like catching light before it dies?”

Jeeny: smiles “And isn’t that what makes it divine? That it’s so brief, so fragile, that you can’t help but worship it for the moment it exists?”

Jack: quietly “Then maybe I’ve just been worshiping too late.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’ve just been watching, not listening. Beauty isn’t meant to be studied — it’s meant to be felt.”

Host: The library lights dimmed automatically, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp between them. The gold light fell across Jeeny’s face, and for a moment, she seemed like something painted — half real, half dream.

Jack looked at her, and for once, said nothing. The silence was its own music.

Jeeny: whispering “See? Even silence has rhythm. Even this.”

Jack: after a pause “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “No, just alive. There’s a difference.”

Host: A page of the book fluttered, turning itself, as if by wind or memory, revealing another of Poe’s lines:

“Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.”

The light trembled, and the room seemed to listen.

Jack: softly, almost to himself “Maybe that’s what we are, Jeeny — just sentences, trying to find our rhythm before the page ends.”

Jeeny: smiling, her voice tender “Then let’s make it a beautiful one.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the library fading into shadow, the light narrowing to a single glow on the open book — on that one word: Beauty.

Outside, the birds circled, disappearing into the twilight, their rhythmic wings like beats of an unseen poem still being written.

And as the scene dissolved, the words of Poe remained — not as definition, but as invitation:

That beauty, like poetry, is not something we hold,
but something we become,
in the brief, rhythmical moment we dare to feel.