And so much that escapes us,
Each person, a secret world of his own,
But no one has the right to break us.
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The Artist looks up to the sky,
The Poet looks into the Rose,To see how passion from it grows,And I, I look into your eyes,To feel this Love that Never dies.
All green will wilt,
And where is our Tomorrow?A spec of joy, a silent smile,And many days of sorrow.All green will wilt,Not without guilt,For Time we cannot borrow,The lonely Flower on the hill,The wind of Time will surely kill,We’re here today,But, will be gone, Tomorrow.
A poet’s love
Than evenPoetry.Hard to describeHow emotions arriveWith such different,Intensity,For a poet’s loveDoes defy,All of realityWanting to be, even more,Than poetry can ever say,Or love can ever be.
Living in a Cloud Burst
All my life,A fantasyMake believe,Even in poetry,Will only give,Momentary euphory,Not ever,The superb fulnessOf ForeverIf ever, a happy,True reality,You’ve missed.
A time, a place,
Someone’s face,Are there lovesSo impossibly wrong,That they canOnly be,Painfully sungBy some sad song?
The Midas touch
The golden imageThat is free,The poet says:‘Oh come to me,More than all elseYou’re worth to me,For Love to him is poetryIt’s in his bloodInner world be,This golden-worded tapestry.