Those that write

Most poets are inspired by

A muse in their daily lives.

A spark of a love that carries

The weight of an anvil

Dropped in bliss.

And though the flowers may blossom

Bloom, and die

My love for you shall never be a lie.

End of poem one.

An angel she appears to be

But with me she shares her devil

A secret lying in wait

Delivered to me by fate.

An edict brought forth

That thou shall love.

End of poem two.


Eyes are windows to the soul

With pathways to the future laid by


The makings of design

Told and retold a million times

Such complexities for the mind.

Yet not all of us are born blind

To the hidden truth left behind

Love is eternal

And blind.

End of Poem three

I once knew a man

Fit as a fiddle

Yet for all his meddling

He could not solve my riddle.

To the ends I may travel

And to the ends I may return

But for all my deeds

I’ve yet to learn

End of Poem four

A rose may prick

And a rose may bleed

And mother nature we do not heed.

Was I talking about a flower?

Or something about the more divinely hour?

In either case

End of Poem five


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