A king is a king
With a very heavy crown.
And that king is a king
Until his crown falls down.
And when that crown
Falls to the ground,
The king is not a king
But instead he is the clown.

Poetry lies in the fields of Brazil
Within my heart yet to reveal.
It is beauty that one can smell,
A sweet aroma that surrounds Her well.

And Her eyes, tho I have not seen,
Perhaps in them the sky holds its blue,
Or perhaps She has stolen
The emeralds green.

Poetry is beauty for one to touch,
Her velvet skin, Her heart to clutch.
And while I knew Her, for some short time
In another world, Her heart was mine.

And Her beauty, I've seen only in dreams,
I still can keep her image well.
And Her name, the seraphs they sing
And call Her by the name of Gabriella.

I hear the voices fading from my ears
Their faces are blurred images
Slowly escaping from my mind.
And try as I may to reconstruct
The memory of those I've loved before
I'm aided by a cruel reminder of regret.
Perhaps those we encounter in our lives,
Some times they are our friends first,
Later on becoming strangers.
And at times perhaps time itself
Moves in reverse, only forcing us to see
Our own faults and the reason for them.
However, if time would only move forward
Perhaps yesterday we could have learned
What tomorrow's mistake will be.
What if we could keep the memory
Of those we've lost alive
By simply telling them good bye?

You won't always be someone's favorite. Some people prefer wine while others prefer something a little bit more strong like whiskey.

Silence causes a series of horrible thinking, while thinking itself prevents silence.

I find myself in awe of antiques, simply because I am antique. I'm quite  fragile, I'm a bit warn, perhaps even a bit dusty, however with every antique lies an interesting story behind it.

What separates one from the thing
Which sets them free?

Not realizing they have the key.