Both take time to well create,
Even more to’interpretate’
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Is there in every poet,
Of incipient insanity,Because they write,And think so much.
How still the night,
When love took flightLife lost all essence,For what is life?Without Love’s breath,An empty shellIn Ocean’s nest,Pushed back and forthBy ill felt winds,All beauty dies,And all is still.
I have some ideas,
Feelings premiere, but are not way on top,I am confused, Doubt’s Runner-Up,The more I Live, the more I Doubt,No one will tell me, ‘the coast is clear’Nor why we live, nor why we’re here,So I’ll go on, day in and day out,Still wondering and not finding out,What this Strange Life is all about.
So much on Earth,
So well planned, tending perfection,Yet man knows none,What is so perfectly done,Our so called ‘civilizations’,Try their best to get undone.
To try to write what’s right,
To give Love wings,With words that sing,To give the darkness light,Take words to feeling’s height,Love verse, with all their might,Things Poet’s try to do,It’s a Calling,Through and Through.
Don’t hide from me
Of my distressOf lonely verseAnd silent nightsThat with its lightCaresses, lonely soulsConsoles themFrom now frigidFright.You and I,Became, OneSo long ago,When on sleepless nightsNeither one could let goOf the haunting memories,That never leftAs time went on,And that only you,As guardian of the nightWere witness to,As we exchanged allOur lunatic fright,In a secret and invisibleEmbrace, of celestial…