Like the foam they vanish,
Magically, at Sea
Things that cannot be,
Things that cannot be,
Why do we still want them?
Why do you ask me?
I don’t have the answer,
No one is a World,
All I know is sometimes,
Life is so absurd.
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It’s easy to feel,
When poets dream,The world becomes betterAnd Love goes further,
Weary, Weary are the Wise,
Life, our World,The Universe,In written form,For it is so full ofMystery,So full of dissonantTheory and HistoryThat TruthSomehow lies hidden,Confused and bedridden,Known, for sureBy none…Information,Hidden by deep secretsSince this World was formed,And long ago, begun,Its mysterious secret lifeUnder the Star of Light,Which is, the Sun.
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.
In a Fool’s Paradise,
They write aboutChanging,Almost everythingWhen they very wellKnowThat all will stayThe same,Anyway.Poor Poet DreamersWhat a way,To waste their day…
We know so much,
Preach so much,And do so little,To practice,True human touch.
Art is pleasure
It’s the nectarOf a Rose,Nature’s dreamAs Beauty goes.Art’s the proofWe have a soul,That can touchSo many othersAnd like Love,It makes us whole.