Good Writers,

Of love that never,ComesOf trembling leavesAnd mortal fearsWhere even TimeSuccumbs.We can’t controlEven our dreamsAs much as we wouldLike,Or even knowAnd comprehendThe message said,That night,When all was darkAnd all light fled,For love had reallyDied,Except in dreamsWould LoveCome back to Life,But what was realIs what you feltWhen in your dreams,You cried,Those stolen dreamsThat well it seemsWere never…

A FeelingThat becomes,Healing.

Ignorant Sphinx?Dr.Jekyll, Mr. Hyde or both?The Great Paradox,Are we really human?Thru the years,Little gained, a lot lost.

Things that areThings that will be.Moved by emotion,Love, Poetry,The poet looks,For essentiality,Nature, soul,Humanity.The essence of Life,Of feeling, of Love,The wonders we see,What we should be made of.The eye of the poet,Wants to see,Beyond the sky,Beyond the horizon,Beyond the sea,And understandsThat in Life’s Symphony,Its only LoveThat sets you free.

Slay, the other,Take from himAll that you can.Demolishment, destruction,Brings to more than a few,Immense wealth and satisfaction!Profits are big,Death even more,But the provokersAlways keep open,the bloody store.WAR,The cruelest, cruelty of man,As victims gather,In the forgotten sands of TimeFor when, the ban?

Beloved,You, the only oneThat really understoodThat sharing, lovingIs where the heartIs never done.