All they do is work,

And had nothing to learn,All would be so boringLike butter being churned.

And never thinkThat we don’tKnown it.And yet,Our DestinyWe cannot escapeA poet’s worldIs his worded cape.

Even domestic animalsCrave itSo why deny its vital must?Without love, livingIs hollow, shallowNever will tall RedwoodsReach the stars,Nor will dreams sail the SeasThat even now, seem so far.

You cannot force something,So intimately tiedTo inspiration, feelingThat is and isn’t you.Mystery surrounds us,And Poetry, too,No answersFor most everything,We do.

Sometimes I really wish,My own thinking would stop,Just to be very still,In peace with mind and will,Not even hear a drop,Of water falling fine,And wondering, as I stop,Why is this drop not wine?

From self,Nor hate yourself,For loving another.In loveThe attachment isSo bindingly strong!You become,One, Another.In this undeniableFusion,That brings happinessAnd heavenEven closer,Like no other.