So much in Poetry is Feelings,

Said One to Another,But it never happenedSince they had never really met,Except in the mindsOf one another,Or maybe on some imaginaryMovie set.Yes, ladies and gentlemen,(if there are any left?)Fiction plays sly tricksOn those,Who in reality are aloneWith loneliness,Far, far awayFrom whatever,Might be called, home.

To not feel at all,Than to feel and not be near,That, that cannot be,Never to posses the golden tear,Of love that suddenly appears,But then becomes a whisper in the wind,Now so far away, when once so near.

And make you believe that they Are,True spiritual Greatness, by far

Of humble pie,To meditate and learn,To create dreams,And not my bridges burnNot to turn my eye,Away from injustice,Condemn, those that lie,Project and Love Beauty,Using Poetry’s endless urn,Until the day, I die.

Thru figuresOf white ghost-like alabasterI sadly do remainWithin the pain, of your departureAnd living now, to no avail.Pain hugs my heartAnd is my master,Now living, never is the same,I cry and hurt so much, much fasterAs if all tears were in your name,Surviving solitude not easyA beast impossible to tame.

Verses,Feelings, even morePut the two togetherWith some lovingAnd Life will beMuch better than before.