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If you think the moon has a soul
And the trees are whispering your name
If you can feel the pulse of a mountain
And see advancing armies in the clouds
Start writing, you're thinking like a poet
 Jan 2017 Margaret Austin Go
ryn
He doesn't see past the horizon of his life
He doesn't indulge in the myth of the hereafter
He doesn't believe he is worthy of such a notion
He doesn't make it a habit to put pen to paper

But with her...

He envisions the future like he's lived it before
He sings of his plans that span several lifetimes
He romanticises his thoughts as soon as they're conceived
He converses in paintings and writes only in rhymes
.

*Now as a crescent moon does shine,
such beauty do I see
Beneath the stars where you are mine
to hold eternally

So when the morning sun does rise
on bluer skies above
You’ll see the truth within my eyes,
forever is my love
.

I play my guitar,
now crying in sevens
a cold vacant morning
with rain on the ground

Sorrowful chords,
on the strings of emotion
in three quarter tear drops
where sadness is bound

                                   And the storm clouds they form
                                   on the edge of tomorrow
                                   with thoughts ever yearning
                                   for your melodies

                                  dreaming of yesterdays
                                  caught in the feedback,
                                  out of tune longings
                                  in lost harmonies


Breathing in silence
of fret seperations
seeking a songlist
of lyrics unfound  

A chill strums my heart,
sitting empty and hollow
I play my guitar
and there isn’t a sound


A child of wind born innocence
chases butterflies to the edge,
gathering whispered weeds
of golden sheen,
singing a lone sparrow’s sonnet,
soaring beyond the cliff,
sending silver lined
cloud bound wishes
to mother earth,
waiting below
In the realm of rumour
wise men suggest
when it is dark enough
you will see the stars

In the fury and the mire of human veins
fragments of dreams and memories
used to spring loose

from my crowded mind
unsettled, darting dreams
shouting slogans in the noisy air.

In the kingdom
of saliva and dust
I have ceased to dream

And soon
I will soon cease
to exist.


© M.L.Emmett
original unpublished poem 'Reality' 07/02/99;  revised 16/02/2016
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