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When I set out for Lyonnesse,
A hundred miles away,
The rime was on the spray,
And starlight lit my lonesomeness
When I set out for Lyonnesse
A hundred miles away.

What would bechance at Lyonnesse
While I should sojourn there
No prophet durst declare,
Nor did the wisest wizard guess
What would bechance at Lyonnesse
While I should sojourn there.

When I came back from Lyonnesse
With magic in my eyes,
All marked with mute surmise
My radiance rare and fathomless,
When I came back from Lyonnesse
With magic in my eyes!
As beautiful as the famed city of Atlantis
Gloriously flourishing in her perfection
There is a place where my soul and heart is
A perfect place without grief or deception

Where my heart is always merry
And peace blossoms like the cherry
The sun smiles at me gently caressing
My body as the birds sing melodies-
So beautiful they keep me guessing-
The beauty of future melodic memories

Like the Cedars of Lebanon
Beautifying the palaces of Ethiopia
Purity, love and perfection adorn her every season.
This place is within me; this place is Utopia
Everyone have scars that,
they don't want to talk about,
Mine?
they are just on my body,
as well as in my head...
One day that smile will become forced
The sparkle in their eye will disappear
Slowly that laugh will become less frequent
The monster will truly show
For those monsters are not under their bed but in their head
You can’t hide so don’t even try they will find you
You can call them crazy now, just remember
When their monster came out you laughed
Now those monster possess your voice
So next time they try to hold in tears just think
You are what causes them to wake up screaming
You are the voice in their nightmares
You make them slowly lose hope in the world
All I ask is next time ask yourself is it worth it?
He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.

He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.

He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.

He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.

He's no poet.**
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.
I am not good at this. I just want to express my pure gratitude, appreciation and awe for you.

"I am no poet. Never thought of myself as one. Just a guy dabbling clumsily in words"
Yet even, everything you do amaze me.


Thank you all wonderful people on Hello Poetry. I just realized this moment that this poem was featured as Daily poem yesterday.  I have never imagined any of my work will be posted as daily. Thank you all for the hearts, re-post,share, comments and messages. You really made my heart and soul so happy. :)
And most of all, thanks to the man who inspire me to write this one. :)
(04.14.2015)
It's early morning when he opens those gorgeous eyes,
Black and beautiful, precious and shying away
Early birds twitter, early lovers kiss
With faded early moons in their eyes
Burning, their thirsty lips, pale their fingertips
Coyly around his neck her wrist
and The forest breeze has woken up
Wailing like an infant, softly into the air
Who said love is a quiet bud in the bloom?
It's a wolf screaming with desire
And gratitude and coldness
It's that cave somewhere deep into the woods
Which you'll find,
and enter,
and wonder how you've ended up there.
Death knocked on his door, right when he's started living
it was 4 am
as i was lying
trying so hard
to keep awake,
for when i close
even for a second
the demons start to
rise like as if from the
dead
// i can't sleep with these thoughts
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