Continuing with my plan to publish my poetry, whether the industry likes it or not...
Love is nourishment of life
milk on which it mouths
when drought of death
dries even tears. These years
we parcel out like playdough
colored pastel figures sculpted
by our fingers into shapes that linger
only till they parch and crumble
are too humble to contain the truth
that we possess nor age nor youth
but nod a dozy moment till
the breath of death revives us
and we wake and find it seems
we are the love we thirsted for in dreams.
What is Love?
Love is the lie we have to tell
Ourselves and others
It is escape from hell
An orphan’s prayer
That someone bothers
For the pain we feel in dreams
And every sunless morning
When we wake to face the raw
Reliving pain of borning
And melancholy hope of dying
Remembering with every breath
The truth that we are born for death:
That is why we are lying
