I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Old symbols are strange But fraud, war, famine and plague Are horsing around
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Virtual shadows Should never be mistaken For living beings
Our love for the search is desperate, mad We must get over our amnesia Hunting and gathering are all we’ve had “Shopping,” “questing,” “searching”—pure poesia
Revenge heals nothing Those who seek it make their wounds Their guides and masters
A new term begins Will it differ from others? History harms hope
Ambition renders all friendships fragile Banquo was my name, while yet I drew breath Cut down by a traitorous blade was I
I am a richly blessed and lucky man Bathsheba gladdens every seeing eye And she is mine alone; our love began When she favored me with a smile most sly
Four minds are at work in this charming scene: Boss, secretary, laborer, artist The last is so clear as to be unseen
Awkward, verbose nerd Who would rather laugh than weep Seeks same—no red hats
No mystery here He is just a con artist You have all been had
Shed your loneliness My rapt gaze is upon you Together, we shine
I am grateful for what you have taught me This bitter lesson in sublimation Sweetens when the beautiful breve I see: Your smile, which could conquer a whole nation
