One day
When all will be turned to ruble
Then we’ll be ‘content’
But by then,
It will be too late
All our good time,
Will have been spent.
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A feeling,
A thoughtA vision,A poemSlips outNo permission,Just,Deeply feltBecoming,Rhythm.
A painting needs
To hang tallAndProject all itsArtistic beauty.And We?we need to learnHow to LoveIn order to neutralizeAll the venom,The serpent gave us,As a gift,When we wereEvicted,From Paradise.
In Poetry,
Every sentiment just right,Form a Necklace of well being,Made of beauty, sound and light.
Are poets happy?
An eternal melancholic flower,That takes away the power,To find happiness to share?Always thinking, always thinking,That better Worlds exist,In some fairyland, Somewhere…
We have no viable leaders,
In the wilderness,Hearts of Stone.
Each poet is different
In a rich, consoling wayThat is because poetsAlways have deepAnd personal viewsSomething warm and caring,Interesting to say,God bless poetsSo different fromThe Devil’s politiciansIn every possible way!