Feudal lords, is anything different for your serfs?
Manipulated and strangulated,
The people pay the price,
Of the misuse of power,
From the lowest hut,
To the highest, tower.
Will it ever change?
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All green will wilt,
And where is our Tomorrow?A spec of joy, a silent smile,And many days of sorrow.All green will wilt,Not without guilt,For Time we cannot borrow,The lonely Flower on the hill,The wind of Time will surely kill,We’re here today,But, will be gone, Tomorrow.
The essence of thought,
Made into poetry.
Because poets can dream
Sea of discovery,The world of fantasyThe mind can travel free.There is a line that’s crossedWhen poems come acrossAnd sparkle inwardly.Communicative spiritMore felt,As ever freeAnd inner worldsDo come across,Surrealistically.Reveling secretsNo one knows,Except thru Poetry.
Was Paradise ever ours?
But creating Hell on Earth,It is We that fan the Winds,That do so.
Poets are children,
Can stand almost anything,Except, if it’s fake.
Poetry,
An impact!Something wonderful,To say,A benevolent guideLike a dear friend,That loves us,And takes our handEveryday.You have been,My Friend,Ever since I can remember,In the most kindAnd loving way,Oh bird of deep splendorA grateful tear,Surrenders,And rolls downMemory Lane,Today.