Where have all the flowers gone,

So will you play, new friendor stick to the demisethat has been scripted then?I may regret to say I will not needthe helping hand you do unfoldthere, on the public square for meit’s only pride that guides me now,a silly gallery of puppets on a string,perhaps they would at that, believehow I could be the…

for me to answer.He did not have it.The courage to deceive though,was pure genetics.I stand alone then,a dummy under palmtreesLet’s go exploitin’………..

inside my earslike violins.Sounds of great beautyrising up with graceinto the evening sky.The Maistro hesitatesthen turnsand climbs the stairsinto the spirewhere Martin Luther wrote,and thought,where one late nightthe Devil knockedto cast false dice,exotic was the walkalone,Canossa, it was his.The world is filledwith things,exquisite huesand crystals offine angel tears.But YOU, my LOVE,you are so far beyondthat…

on tablecloths and counters and on me.Boys do not cry she’d say, one must be strong,remember he stood still, our Wilhelm Tell,he shed no tear nor did he blink as well he ought,it was an apple that remained, though not for me.It ain’t the radio when it plays a schmaltzy song,nor will the scenes of…

A poet is a a writer who is vain,Potemkin engineer of his own soul.

can they return to me, I missthose endless hours that are now in ruins.It does return now, gently, stillperhaps in all the drops of a warm rainyet we’ve forgotten what it willremind us now of riches and no baneof seeing and just living without carelike creatures yet as humans with no fearand filled up to…