Poetry is not what the poet has to say,
It's what the reader wants to read.
It is not something to be taught in schools,
But to by learned by the heart.
Because maybe then,
People would be able to read people better.
Perceive them as more than just bodies,
See true souls instead of the outer nobodies.
Because what more are people,
Than just the universe's poetry?
Meant for more than just judgement,
Made and created to be loved.

We were but embers,
Making memories and mischief to remember.
We were but sparks,
Here a shy glance and there a sly remark.

Alas, we were but ashes,
As fires are meant to burn us mortals.
No escapes. No portals.

We were but yellow heat,
A tangle of  passionate arms, legs and feet.
We were but blue flames,
What broke us apart was it the lies or the deceitful games?

Alas, we were but ashes,
As fires are meant to burn us mortals.
No escapes. No portals.