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Oh I wish so much you would remember
those happy days when we were friends.
Life in those times was so much brighter
and the sun was hotter than today.
Dead leaves picked up by the shovelful.
You see, I have not forgotten.
Dead leaves picked up by the shovelful,
memories and regrets also,
and the North wind carries them away
into the cold night of oblivion.
You see, I have not forgotten
the song that you sang for me:
It is a song resembling us.
We lived together, the both of us,
you who loved me
and I who loved you.
But life drives apart those who love
ever so softly
without a noise
and the sea erases from the sand
the steps of lovers gone their ways.
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
A gift wrapped prose
of undraped words
to confabulate or obfuscate
An incantation in every metre

It conjures a spell
on those that dwell
by their torpid state
in somnolent walls of each stanza

Never counts its lines
nor vocalize what rhymes, openly
'cause you won't ever tell
that you're in hell with the Devil's poetry.
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
A word... an array
what can and can't they do?
Carefully, thoughtfully feathered
whispers of ink

For the Poet... poetry
art on display
expressions of the expressionless
in silence, pretermitted meaning convey

A word...a score
music to the soul
boldly, willfully etched
deep into your heart

For the poet.... poetry
a vestige that echoes over time
a word, a stanza
Poetry
how beautiful is poetry to the poet?
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
Come and see
in the night painted sky
a scattered brilliance
vivid, ever aglow

Take time again to look
at each irrelevant speck
alight tonight
just for you... see

Didn't you notice
the dullest star
no longer shines
as before?

But today, yes today
it radiates more than most

Come and gaze
at the night painted sky
its passing; it is passing
the star inside of me
Anthony Pierre Nov 2019
By birth most knew
This name of stern
As mentors too
Some take this turn

Few tamed in domicile
Less in passive right
Age takes this notice
Not wisdom nor sight

Whose care can nurture
Great strength in a foal?
To yield such future
Mere presence can scold

With great hope so few
Enjoy this manly art
That horses will march
Long after they depart

I await this fortune
Time takes my reign
My worships in court
Years cannot regain

How will my horses march
On life's steeple chase
Without their father's hold
From this their tender age?
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