Just written,
With moments
Purposely lost,
It just does not have
That magic spell
That poets as magician
Do so well,
You can’t fake a poem,
And for the sake
Of all those
With Poetry, enamored,
Just as well!
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All the unconditional love,
I cannot forget,It lives in me,Irreplaceably, set.
Why do we write?
Cannot retain all the juggling thoughts,That wet it, like a constant Rain.
Way into the night
Tirelessly, BeautifullyPoetically,With inspiration,That is what you mightCall, incredibleDedication,Does not do itFor profit,Not at all,For some kind ofSanctification?Some inner dedication?I don’t knowAll I know is thatSuch proliferationMerits gratitudeAnd great admiration!
When it’s gone, it’s gone,
The greenest, thickest, growing fern,Cannot console or hide,The melancholic, shattering pain,Of Love that’s gone and died.And all that’s left are blue sea pearls,The tears, you cannot hide.
Beauty is precious and rare,
And spread her grace,In every place,For Beauty was made to share.
Poetry,
With real signs of contentment,And sacrifice,As a Nun takes her Vows,As a Mother cares for her child,As the World turns around and changes,We, Poets,Have nothing to hide.Our love for you,Is pure and complete,You are the love of our livesWhat makes us human and keeps us alive.