They practice,
Fraternal, sentimental calls
Plus have of Love, an overdose.
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You know,
Called Fantasy,That consoles,That makes you free,And there is Love in poetry,A warm breeze of Fraternity,That embraces your Soul,And keeps you company.
There are many loves, in many ways,
That’s not the same, that’s not the sameThat’s not the same way, I love you,With joy and pain, almost insane,This passion burns me through and through.In every drop of limpid rain,I see your face, I hear your nameThe wind conveys it’s Mystery,But can’t take you away from me.And so we travel, hand in hand,Love takes…
Who decorated butterflies
A fairy from the forestWho did not want to die.Why are their wings so colorfulSo beautifully designed?Because, the Fairy was an artist,And great works of art,Will never die.
My poetry is free,
It has a life of it’s own,In which I can participate,But never, fully own.
I’ve lost enough shirts
Now I feel cold,My nest egg has dwindled,That’s for not keeping,More eggs in my basket,Instead making omelets,Bad and bold.A la swindle.
Thinking and feeling is dangerous,
Being ‘blank’ is more advantageous,And sometimes, your greatest wealth.