The poet crosses
So many streams
Chases,
So many dreams
And finally
Disappointed,
Closes
Those white pages
Not ever written,
Where all Mysteries
Gather, Shadows
But noting is true
With the exception
That nothing is
What it seems.
The poet crosses
So many streams
Chases,
So many dreams
And finally
Disappointed,
Closes
Those white pages
Not ever written,
Where all Mysteries
Gather, Shadows
But noting is true
With the exception
That nothing is
What it seems.
No Conscience, ‘What is that? ‘Just in it for the Buck,They spread their Sea of Mud.
Convert complicated to plain,All in vain,Surrounded by Theories,Or the mutterings of the insane,We live in constant Fog,With or without drugs,That certainly disrupt,Our ‘thinking’ brain,Plagued,By our erratic actions,Never explained.
A cloudless day,A starry night,We are content,With Love’s delight,A kiss for you,A kiss for me,And a Romantic Fantasy.
Poetry can’t just beGlanced at,You’ve gotTo feel itMore than justRead it.
Reminiscing in my silence,Comes the need to think aloud,And what better than a poem,That becomes a traveling cloud,With past thoughts and inner feelings,Where deep memories are allowed.Poem, friend that wakes my silence,Takes me gently by the hand,Helps me write a Sea of Feelings,All my world it understands.
It remains a living witness,Of how words can turn to Art.