Said the poet
To his dream,
Or did we
Create
One another
And we’re
Both,
Just but a dream.
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More than words,
A FeelingThat becomes,Healing.
Poetry, Poesia,
Love you?In my darkest hoursFriend and lover,In my saddest momentsConsolation,In your wordsAnd feelings,All the love,All the vibrationsOf Life,In mystic adoration.
Odd profession,
And never thinkThat we don’tKnown it.And yet,Our DestinyWe cannot escapeA poet’s worldIs his worded cape.
There are good days
But never, never regretThe intense loveYou’ve desired,And better still, had.
You hit a cord,
You start a poem,An Angel heardThat speaks to youMoves mind and penYou know it thenYou’re still alive,Ready to write,And live again.
All things are of interest,
A crumb of bread that has fallen,And is bigger than herself,To the vast, infinite Universe,Whose hidden meaning, so far,Has been more or less a guess.Who are we to destroy, plunder?Things, we surely did not make,We, who are but dirt and thunder,Yet, still think, we are so great,We should be quite a bit humbler,And respect each…