With so much scare.
So alone!
In this tearful valley
Of Stone,
Who will hear our human groan?
Our Prayer?
Or wipe our tears,
Or who will even care?
For covered with the ivy of despair
Is Future’s dome.
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It’s ecstatic and dramatic,
An irresistible attraction,Like the Earth has for the Moon,Creating tides of emotional happiness,Making normal mortals, swoon.This irresistible attraction,Comes from having an unusual Soul,From that rare Spiritual MagicThat never will grow old,That flows like liquid gold.
Without Poetry,
Poetry, sort of spices allThat is in fact at hand,Emotionally speakingEverything around youBecomes a bit more grand,For example, Spanish guitarsIf by pure fantasy,You have imagined onePoetically, at hand.
What do we solve
Or with anthingFor that matter,Our History,A MysteryOf unpronounceableSecrets!And nebulous matter.
What can’t Poetry
If you can answer,Please do.Because, I can’tEven if I wantedTo.Love is blindTightly Bound,By such mysteriousFeelingsThat for, the inexplicable,Many timesThe right words,Don’t existOr can’t be ever found.
No fuel needed
If you readThe right Poem,Won is, the gameAs with Love,Just the same.
I travel,
Pink rose, graySomehow,Not totally happyBut not with frown,I enjoy,A welcomed ivory towerWhere none can hurt meOr blow me down,Except for TimeThe greatest EnemyOf life’s crown.
In the magnitude
And vastness,
Of an infinitely large
Universe,
Gazing at the starry sky,
Not really knowing
Where to go,
Lost in the wilderness of time
As the rustling trees around us
Softly whisper,
Why? ,
Why am I here?
And why must I live
To die?
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Sadness,
With a tingeOf sweet-sad Sandalwood,And the sound of‘I don’t care’.
We all need a little Love,
But if it can’t be,A little will doSo that Life can start anew.
Interpret it as you will,
Poetry is stillThe reflection,The languageOf the Soul,That has no material form,No explanation, at allBut connects our dreams,To ideas and feelings,That are our finest, call.
Love is Love,
Hate is hate,Maybe not innate,But there’s much too much,Taught, taken advantage of,Love is love,In so many different waysLucky those,Whose lives it sways.
With all the pain within me,
No, it isn’t very easy,Melancholic rivers, flow.It’s an anguish that’s persistent,Something I cannot control,It’s an emptiness, insistent,That does not get filled at all.I have looked over the Mountain,And have sailed the Human Seas,Hoping someday I would find you,And you’d be all Love could be.I have looked into the fountains,Of the Arts, centuries old,And still empty,…
Sweet dreams of Liberty,
So be it,Let the Shadow of Tyranny be still!So we can only be governed,By men of good will.