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Time,
Which I mentalize
And squander,
Daydream,
Write poetry,
In wonder
Remembering,
Old films that
Still hold me
Hostage,
As priorities,
Old thunder
That loiters,
In the slumber
Of my dreams,
The gnawing ones
The most beloved ones,
Those that I know
Won’t come true
But aide imagination,
And sometimes
Somehow are
The animation
That helps us cope,
And see Life thru.
Death of the spirit,Death of the soul,When you cannot,Love at all?
For they are able to feel and see,What no prose can ever beAnd live in perpetual discovery.
That indescribable feeling,That allows the transformation,From sensation into language as translation.
Black, flying colors,No one is masterOf Time, DestinyOr DisasterBut at least we are freeTo chose whoWe will love,If ever weFind them,And also of howWe get lostIn life’s,Pitiless Jungle.
Secretly, that love confessed,As if words were not intendedTo be stressed,A rose petal’s sweet caress,Quickly, safely kept in lover’s nestFrom where it will never part,Flowing harmony, love’s harpAlmost silently, love’s artTenderly, can have its start.
No praise is deep enough,We owe them all of our Respect,Deep Gratitude and Love.
