As it ages, it becomes divine.
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Poets don’t make good economists,
Numbers are not letters,That they understand,They may do better at politics,Because they are idealists,And Freedom is their stand.
Poetry at work,
One after another, after another,Time,The same exhilaration,Delirium, ecstasy, rapture,As the heart beats fasterAnd the Pen flies,Dripping imagination,You’re Salvation,The Soul rejoices,In every poetic sensation.
You can’t force Faith,
Their own personal gate,And become a sincere believer,Or forever for answers wait.
A poem this,
So many things,That don’t come back,All effort gone,In Life itself,As Time slides off,A hidden shelf,And all’s not well,In Fairyland,For those who,In a poem dwell,Thinking that time,Can be pulled back,And will some how,Forget to act.
I look at the World,
And am lead to believe,That we are a race,Born in infamy,Having intelligence,Capability, heart,Why do we continue,To tear each other, apart?
Never a boring moment
It challenges all subjects,And helps you understand,That impulsive ticker,Where emotions often land.