Moving, to the hilt,

To quit the World,Such as it is,In Words of Mist, that do persistTo hide the pain of everyday,And say that Life,Is not in vain,That let you dream,Even on land,That oceans really are at hand,That make you think that Love is True,And that the Sea is really blue.

You might assume,That they always need a crutch,Cannot be trusted very much,Need to carefully guard their lunch,Always ready, to kangaroo punchAnd have sawdust,Instead of a brain.

Drown in a Lagoon,Of unanswered,Constant,Whys?

A perfect world,It’s fatiguing, causes bleeding,Knowing how we’ve lost the boat,And yet,Some rare Poets still hold hope.

Does not heedJust to desire,Alone.What moves it,What transpires?Is the great,Unknown.It can’ be forcedJust by desire,Nor artificiallyPerformed,But when it happensAngeles’ choir,Makes you feelYou have come home.

A hopeless shadowWithout a friendWith whom to shareSome happiness,Sometimes, a sorrowWhich in the end,Is simplyLife’s truest blend.