Can I, in some deep dream,
Own to myself this feeling grand,
Veiled in mystery and
Etheric in its nature?
Just, only rarely
And still it embraces
Me and all others who live.
Evermore it continues,
Sweet and sour
Holy and divine,
Of God's own domain,
Love is something more,
Dearer.
Esteemed it shall be
Now and forever.
Write a poem,
Any poem;
It can be about whatever
And take any shape you wish.
It could be about rainbows and butterflies
About the warmth of love
Or the bitterness of its passing.
It might be about the kings of old
Their eternal empires
And their now decayed might.
It might be a sonnet,
Shakespearean or otherwise.
Or perhaps something fragmented,
A falling leaf in the wind.
It could have colour; yellows and reds and oranges,
And it could resemble a horse.
It could be an assortment of stones
Of various sizes, somewhere in the woods,
Where a stranger might one day stumble upon it,
Or not.
Write a poem,
Or rather
Allow it to emerge.
Unfiltered thought in a few scattered words
Be they ink, coal or rock,
On paper or out in the world.
Write a poem,
And allow yourself to feel
The flow.
Not because anyone will read it,
Or allow it to flow through themselves.
Not because of praise or glory,
For few have that luxury.
Write a poem,
To explore your truest self.
Write a poem,
To reach for
Immortality.
It comes around once more
That dreadful day,
Where no words are said,
No songs are sung.
Where the silence
Of those who matter most
Echoes within
My pit of self-pity.
Where all goes wrong
And my decreed smile
Is ne'er born.
And once more
The joy and the woe
Dance their waltz
And here I lie
Intoxicated
By their beating hearts.
Awaiting something
That is born anew.
