To love the same things,
To fill the other’s soul,
With tender, soft caress,
With Happiness, you bless
Makes Love,
If not Heaven, not much less.
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Sometimes a poem can be,
An emotion, a sensation.Of Life, a palpitation,But never a deliberate lie.
Flowers!
Shapes divine,No living thingHas created,A perfect beautySuch as thine.
How restlessly
Life’s complicatedSpins and Spans,That like in filmsAccompany, the vital WhimsAnd Screenplays of our Lives.Spotlights so dim,The more we search,The less we understandThe reasons why?We’re given lifeThat is to die,As all around us closes inAnd dreams no longer satisfyWith hope,Our vital auto-tranceThe sleeplike altered stateThat due to age,Prevents the apparitionOf a second chance.
To each his poison
Mine is Poetry,I find Her, rather nice
Life should be an art,
A homage to the blessing,Of all artistic creation,Ah, to live and love thru art,No greater life sensation!
As I sit alone and ponder,
What Life’s Play is all about,All I know is Love’s the Wonder,For our lives not to go under,And of that I have no doubt.