You’re not only the love of my life,
But my inspiration, too.
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The satisfaction
In writing,A poemCannot be acquiredOr merely desired,It surpassesAll typesOf Emotions,It’s likeBeing born again,From and withLove,Full of devotion.
They read each others verses,
They didn’t know each other,Only through words, it seems,And yet a Love had flourished,That crossed, personal lines,A Love that made their hearts beat,Not once, but many times,A Love born from abstraction,A Love they idealized,The purest Love that ever,Two Souls had realized.
Fingers, hands, Souls intertwine,
Of your love and mine,And Love so divineEnvelopes our World,And nothing is heard,If not, but the heart,That trembles and flutters,Like the Soul of a bird,Like a light in the dark.
Said the poet to the fly,
All I see,Is an empty carafe,Were once there were,Seas of expectancyNow, disappointment,Has the last laugh.
Everybody’s got a Gimmick,
Round and Round, and Round we go,Where Spin Stops we never know!
Poetry, look at me,
Was our love-life something wrong?To desire with such fire,All a poem can prolong.Life is nonsense without substance,If some good you can’t perform,I have loved you with my conscience,And the passion of a Storm.Poetry, beloved Fountain,Of my Life, you are my home,And my Country and my Mountain,And my ever reaching Dome,You’re the Ocean of my motion,Where…