In a very special spider’s web,
Of memories, lived,
And nearly forgotten,
Embedded in the silent,
Walls of Time.
What for a Rhyme?
To music give,
And not forgive
Forgetful, passing Time.
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Some poets live
Where Poetry,Is!Exists,Only to be lovedAnd shared,As a heart-throbbingMiracleOf It!Happy is the poetThat, becauseOf this fulfillingInextinguishable,Pure love,Is never reallyAlone,And only livesTo adore,The beauty of..Poetry’s living soul.
Today,
Admired and desired,The artist seeks his placeIn a World so cold and uninspiredIt’s a slow and difficult raceDisorientation,Is generally the bitter case.
How deep is the Ocean,
What puts us in motion,To feel what we feel?Our lives are like Secrets,That hidden Winds, blow,The more questions asked,The less we do know.
Feeling alone,
It does something,To the soul,A shrinking feeling,A chocking feeling,A trembling faun,A still night,Without a dawn,A lonely feeling,Like I’ve never known,An emptiness,A sad duress,Hopelessness,With no healing,And no home.
Trying to force a poem,
You cannot force something,So intimately tiedTo inspiration, feelingThat is and isn’t you.Mystery surrounds us,And Poetry, too,No answersFor most everything,We do.
No,
The tears start to flow,No matter what you do,No matter how much you try,The pain is always there,Like a dented rack,Whose notches turn,From my flesh into my bloodMore painful every day,No matter what I doNor what I say,The pain is always thereAnd will Never go away.No,You never recover,From love and loss,You become like a stoneThat…