Seen with the Poet's eye,
the world is a Poem.
Frozen we lie,
scared to live
afraid to die!
Yielding to love,
we aren't diminished.

Two lives are enhanced.
Sky
Spare a minute,

there over you
it's still not lost.
A bull in heat is running around
in poetry town,
trampling the hallowed ground
with thumbs down.

Visits poet's page
leaves a dirty stain,
its pathetic rage
is its only gain.

The poor bull needs to hurt
what a pity,
hurting is the only art
in its capacity.

If only it spent the heat
to write a poem,
not waste time in spreading shit
unashamed.
In no time, most of the "friend ships" sink
snaps the tie, breaks the link
over time and tide of joy and pain
only a few will remain.

Maybe just one "ship" will reach the shore
when old, and death, knocks upon door!
Worrying about it spoils the present
harbouring regrets is no good thing
and about a time long disappeared
thinking of which adds no advantage.

Irrevocable is the rule of decisions
fallout isn't intended to be foreknown.
acrostic
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