Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Strangers

Why do you hope for love
Like a wing clipped dove
Under a sheet of frost
Hopes for some warmth lost ?
Love to me is a stranger
The liar, the ever-changer

In an opaque bubble
Blind to the inevitable
Existing in dark hollow
Reality too hard to swallow
Truth to me is a stranger
My fantasies it wants to injure

Alone is a beautiful place
To be me without a shadowed face
Solitude, so safe and secure
No company to smilingly endure
People to me are strangers
I have but myself to endanger

And now by a reality struck
I am the rotten apple to be plucked
That it is sparkling crystal clear
'Tis I, the real imposter here
This poet herself is the stranger
And there is nothing to do to change her.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

o.O blink blink.....should i call 911? ops..thats just in US ..

Poetry

when language like bubbling streams flow




when words are laid down to fit like lovers' hands




when you feel the essence of the poet from within




when swirling thoughts are caught in the net of rhythm



when images reel as you read




when pen and paper create a symphony




then, it is poetry
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