if I were the Scar to your Mufasa,
then I'd re-write that whole disaster
and be th' one to go to th' hereafter,
for you, I gladly opt to be the martyr

with violet bridging up the flow,
from red right thru' to indigo
somewhere inside we All do glow,
we're All th' colours o' th' rainbow

I could put in the words what I do,
It becomes so irrelevant to
what I say despite for it not be
It just deeply affected me.
I do what needs to be done
It needs not be said so seldom.
In the dark of the night,
From left to the right
Don't cut, no bite
I have to say to be in the fight
To be few and fortunate.
With the crimes increasing,
And people turning cold,
You need more to live by
Give more and try
To make this earth a nice place
All across.

I hope you’re still feeling peaceful
Some place where you’re safe
Separation is an illusion
You remain forever
                     tangled                     
                      in                        
      my        
depths

I guess we call them "Po-ems"
'cause what 'they' do is "Po(ur) 'em"
the thoughts and feelings,
hopes and willings,
issue(d) out... yeah, quite revealing

I guess we call them "Po-ets"
'cause what 'they' do is "Po(ur) 'it"
their dreams and longings
(flow) out ' their being,
all to find that sought out healing

I guess I call 'them' "Prophets",
tho' some do it for profit
well, that's their dealing,
't may be fulfilling
in this, I pray you find some meaning

she ruffles thru' the written rows,
line by line, she sifts thru' prose
intent on catching with her knows (nose),
the timeless scents of dainty rose

her eyes affixed to gems in ink,
the precious words adeptly linked
by (her) lover's mind that ever thinks
of her thru' night without sleep's wink

in penned down verse she does find peace
amidst the words of (her) lover's piece
she is the muse that brings him bliss,
and with these words he sends his kiss

You've prob'ly heard it told before,
Of "Midas' Touch" in written lore
But what you prob'ly might not know's...
Of Midas' kin, "Sadim", his bro

While Midas' touch turned things to gold,
Sadim's hold would turn them old
Upon his touch, things would grow mould,
Or break apart like pummeled stone

Well, SADIM's MIDAS flipped right back,
his brother's white, and he's the black
his name suggests he turns things dim,
his presence's dark, foreboding grim

But mark you ye, they're needed both,
Sadim's death, and Midas' growth...