All those you come
Into contact with,
But hardly even know
Will never really
Know,
Shadowy presence
Virtual figures
Lonely hearts
Friend or Foe?
Dream or existence?
No one will ever know,
Who, What or When
Not even the machine,
Thru which,
All phantoms come and go.
In the solitude of Time,In the solitude of morn,Life inserts its painful thorn,For existence is a myth,Knowing not, why we exist.
Most don’t even knowWhat Poetry givesAs far as consolation,To the soul,Most have never evenLooked closelyAt a Rose,Its true color,Its abode,The drops of dew,Silently, humbly,Trembling,Upon, petals sweet,Daylight’s tearsThat compose,All that can marry,Poetry to a Rose.
Are they Poetry’s goal?To protect our fragile, sanity.
Working hard,Swiftly,Running aroundIn all directionsTrying to find crumbs,Little wordsTo put togetherTrying, to giveLife and PoetryIt’s dignityAnd precious,Chant,Regardless,Of bad weather.
Since you never stop talkingAnd giving wrong accounts,False and slimy politiciansOwe the Lied-to of the World,A very large amount.
Our invasive computers?Our impersonal answering machines?No, I don’t think they would.A Poet lives from Beauty, Art and Truth,And nothing gives more joy,Than, dreaming, the impossible come true,If you could, wouldn’t you?
