Wounded in my Soul,
Hit by an invisible arrow,
Pain is so personal,
Disappointed,
Not anointed,
Not happy at all,
In pain,
In my distress,
Silence, my only caress,
Silence, my only friend,
That loves me the best,
But cannot feel my pain.
Nor help me become happy again.
A whole garden of prose.
My God, how did we everCome about?Must have been,A tragic mistakeOf that I have no doubt.
Not temporary idolatry,For those who haveYour marvels sung.Eternal fountain of youth,Of Beauty, Love and TruthWhose endless gloryAnd unfinished story,Is not yet done,As you, Miss PoetryLovingly, rival,The morning Sun.
Probably,That is why,Teach them well,In goodness, beauty and morality,(If they still exist)So that your spirit,Leaves some perfumed sails behind,That will cross the seas of Time,With good Teachings,That are sage, just and kind.
Seems absurd? Don’t laugh, it’s possible,Poetry makes possible, the impossible!
May be somewhatProtected,But the Devil,Probably enhancesEvil.Is this saidJust not to take the blame,And is it Not the Devil,But, WEWho are the source ofAll evil?Because the hellishThings that some have done!Unimaginably,Wrong and hideous,Indicate,That we createOur own hateful,Turbulent, upheaval,Murdering innocenceAnd the weakest,Blaming, mental depravity,For our blindnessOur Evil,Which, by now should beTotally rejected,In order to makeThis World,More Livable.
