We are so alone,

All those you comeInto contact with,But hardly even knowWill never reallyKnow,Shadowy presenceVirtual figuresLonely heartsFriend or Foe?Dream or existence?No one will ever know,Who, What or WhenNot even the machine,Thru which,All phantoms come and go.

As if it were an old friend,That to sentiments does lend,An opening, deep and through.You can always go backTo ‘That’ poem,The one that when was readTraversed your heart,At that moment,Was just what you needed,The very close friend,That to your pain,A sympathetic ear did lend.

Or is it such a hopeless messThat nothing but an unlikely miracle,Will do?

Where loveMagnifies,I stare into SadnessItself,Knowing that helpWill never come,And that lifeWithout youWill burn out,All by itself.

Like a caressing melody,For I can hear their symphony,A quick rhyme here,A sonic flare,And then there’s lightning,Everywhere.My beating heart,Begins to dance,I write as if,I’m in a trance,I see the World,Now, at one glance,And feel the joy,Of true Romance.Mysterious words,That talk to me,And make me feel,Such Ecstasy,You are my World,My fantasy,The promised land,Of Poetry.

A tragedyWaiting to happen,Profit,From good momentsWhen you can,Cultivate,Love and BeautyLend a hand,After all,Those areThe blessingsThat in LifeCount and reallyReally, matter.

Travel thru our HistoryAnd whatever,Is good in usWas born mysteriouslyAs were the Stars,Luminosity desired,Luminosity, inspiredBy some kind ofMiracle,Translated into, poemsAnd works of art.You can’t create,Without sincerity or love,Inspiration isn’t enoughFor all things, truly humanWere discovered, recoveredSculpted into some great PoemOr some illustrious Work of Art,Creative Anatomy,Is the revelationPerhaps, the explanationOf what, in this tormented lifeSets…

Do lovers cry in Autumn,For fear of losing All?Why is this Season favored,By poets and by song?Is it because they know and feel,That Life will be reborn?Or because they sadly hearLife’s melancholy song?

To whom, you just can’t sayGo away, get lostCome back another day,It just doesn’t work that way,Imperatively, they must be writtenFor the poet’s survivalAnd the poem’s, birth day

Their verses reaching summitsThat never in reality, will log.But it really doesn’t matterBecause for a few ecstatic minutesThey will have left this planet,And lived,Beyond all imaginable, Limits!

Always lookingFor the Unattainable,The desired PerfectionWe all dream ofAnd want.

May come from a good film,That like a friend, travels with us,In plenty and in slim,Its glorious message, never dim.