| Poem I | Poem II | Poem III |
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Woe is he who withholds his desires Untold love leaving him far beyond cold. Passion burns the heart worse than Hell’s fires; Has tormented kings and the knights of old. Scour his soul and nothing you will find Behind only the trite life that he feigns. A man who shuns his desire is blind; Leaves nothing but material remains. Live for the moment and savor each breath, For a strangled spirit is worse than death. |
My mind feels warped heavy and full of mud Getting it up is a challenge I feel like crud Somewhere around me someone is speaking to whom I don't know but the mud has started leaking The fog is thinning as the voice becomes clear The face begins to take shape and I begin to recognize her She takes me in her arms as I try to realize my breathing is short gasping, to be precise Within her hold feeling begins to return My legs try to move guess it's time to relearn My fingers give a twitch as do my elbows and wrists My arms have been revived I guess I still exist Then I notice the aura that surrounds me and her an aura as white as snow an aura just so pure The fog around my eyes lifts and I recognize her face "You died so long ago," I said "How can this be so?" She just smiled and took my hand With her help I stood up, and looked into the eyes of my love from long ago Still as young as when she left So young she shouldn't have had to go She sees my confused look and brings my hand to my face My wrinkles are gone! Just what is this place? My eyes continue to search for clues to my questions and answers for my heart then I notice the gowns the we both appear to wear Gowns as pure as my aura Suddenly it strikes me everything has become clear I smile and hold her hand as the last bit of mud becomes a tear. |
Here it is a flame, is a flame and other small amusing flame, Of the vague flame of the flame calls, Of the calls of the duck of the flame of the flame of calls, Of the potato of the mattone of reducing in breads of calls, Of the cake of the cheese of the flame of the flame, Of calls of the fungus of the flame, Of the duck of the flame it was once that treehouse, I it lived in a cake but the rake never saws to the sense the orange, Not slayed that was only three years of the dead men, But it has counted a history and hour listens, The small boy the emergency track it has always seen, That a flame to you to kiss a flame on the calls, Of the flame of the taste of the flame of the calls, Of the flame of the half of the duck of the flame of a flame the flame, Two times the call cultivator does not call it calls in an automobile, In order to alarm the calls that of the flame the duck, Is this how much hour has said? It is all therefore old? It is of the spremuta one of the lemon? The cold ankle of doorknob the hour that my song is taking place to me, Hour has worked thin of the hour makeshift for me in order to withdraw themselves and to make a duck. |