Where they live their perfect hours
That no Times can tear apart.
Politicians in polluted Leaning Towers,
Where they fidget, ‘work’ and cower,
Thinking up, how to keep Power,
And enslave the human heart.
Where they live their perfect hours
That no Times can tear apart.
Politicians in polluted Leaning Towers,
Where they fidget, ‘work’ and cower,
Thinking up, how to keep Power,
And enslave the human heart.
Normal, less normal, insane,Some people like to read,The Clouds that Poets write,But living in the Clouds,A danger signal is,For even famous poets,Cannot fully describe,The Mystery that life Is!
Some times it tires,Diminishes its fires,Burns slower with desire,But never disappears,Greatest blessing,Wipes away the sadnessIn our tears.
Poetry can do this,Sometimes, with just one rhyme.
Whether it’s made up,Hurting or real.
So dear and all in life to him,A prayer, a song, a heartfelt hymn.
Say Nothing,Or behind twisted words,Riddles,But the heart,Knows none of this,And silently sobs,The Truth,And is broken,In Solitude