It amazes me
like Angkor Wat
standing
in morning aurora
the perfect view
I can't escape
(I haven't tried)
the nubility
of melancholic, doleful eves

And it amazes me
why beauty of sadness
appeals to this man
like magnets of my mind
were once mixed by their poles
could it be
the explanation
why its tough to navigate
and feel a bit lost in this world
my beautiful world

there's life between the lines,
in paradise and hell, a life
between the vines,
next to drugs and sobriety,
between the lines

there's life between the lines,
beyond sea and land, a life
between the tides,
in love and hate,
between the signs,
in our life and death, a mile
between the sides

look what free speech has done,
over 100,000,000 books written,
laying in shelfs of thrift shops,
given away for free,
since 99,999,637 are not worth reading,
to be honest,
I blame parents, and teachers, but most of all,
the wannabe bohemians,
with their designer clothes and artisan beer,
giving applause for friends,
who just published their debut work

sweet child, do not go up the stairs,
tomorrow polaris dies!
as only memoir remains,
in the melancholic skies,
virtuous child, spare your veins!

so you couldn't resist a shooting star,
you're not a failure, you're a poet,
come meet your kind,
in nighttime rooftops, we wait for you,
life's beauty, you will find!

brothers, sisters and all minorities,
I call you not to arms, unless forced,
but to gaze upon undersigned and thyself,
let us lay our forgotten senses,
in the hands liberty,
escape,
the long ruled captivity,
of forces that reckon no humanity

see the sea we are gasping our air in,
the false beliefs they are airing,
hear the fear of our siblings,
from the earth of castaway feelings,
and feel tomorrow of rescued society,
unity of you and me, for you are me,
and I am you, should we ever melt the globe to one remainining matter, wholeness.

Sun darkens and heats in east,
balance of powers perturbs,
it'll be a sad story,
in books of history

last poet will finally cry,
and with delicate soft hands,
one, which never did a days job,
must poet carve a tear dome,
for past times, humanity and freedom

*** and July
   gives tingling heat,
paves way
  for all romanticism,
and poor Rudy,
wrote a letter of love before dawn, and as expected,
           she adored it,
  never were they told,    
Romeo and Juliet is a ******* tragedy!