Home Of The LonelyPoet

Blog Post About This Poem.

The unknown, the unheard, the undeserving,
He is the undesired still he drew breath with love,
Silence he knew not for his mind always spoke,
And words he spoke in unheard ways filled with love.

Mockery of the world followed her hearing,
And echoed through every vein when spoke,
About love and the meanings from his heart,
Ah’ all love for him inside her heart drowned.

The folds of her heart yearned to feel more,
Still took all pain in her and drowned her love,
The dream fate well weaved from him she stole,
And shattered it and called him a criminal.

Their life became a stagnant pond where grew,
Deadly bacteria that bread mosquitos and swirled,
Hydras that kept the world away, far away from truth,
The dreamless life once was a flowing river of love.

Forgiveness still he sought for the love of her still lay,
Deep under the stagnant pond rotting but still not dead,
Well known, but wonderfully ignored beyond her senses,
Forgiveness he sought for the love deep in him ached.

Ah’, with the God-given ability to perfect an imperfect life,
The magnet became the language of his heart which polished,
Life in magnificence of time and space at unimaginable pace moved,
Where he became an ocean for the thief of his dreams to walk.

Blog Post About This Poem.

The pages of fate, Ah’, unseen by us, yet we live,
Through them, sometimes we fight, most times, succumb.
Through life, we write many pages into history, unknowingly,
Stories and poetry, forgotten upon moss-filled headstones.

Then there are those emotions that deliver feelings,
Through them all through growing life we weave,
Fabrics filled with art in grandeur upon which we paint,
What felt in happiness, as dreams fulfilled and as life lived,

What felt in sadness, as haunting dreams, unfulfilled, and burned,
Pages every living being love to burn fast and forgotten,
Oh’, I remember the ways I have weaved the fabrics and painted,
Dreams with you, about you, life with you, and the burning of all.

Oh’, I wish those pages were not set on fire in a broken heart,
Where the folds held scrolls upon which a poet wrote,
Stories of love none ever even in imaginations dreamt,
Now as ashes floating on the oceans of emotions.

When metaphors became the only option to express,
Love deeply felt and from far away read,
The unreturned love deep inside her heart suppressed,
Oppressed herself into a doubting, spying melancholic.

Shallow dreams birthed out of a doubt-filled mind,
Mindless stories about a loveless man repeatedly told,
Ah’, what else you hear from those mindless wayfarers?
None will stay and with gossipers smiles, they will fade.

And alone hear you will the echoes of their curses,
When into oblivion they will fade and as mirages will appear,
Not for long as the power of the poetry of hearts will overpower,
Those echoes and will rhyme with the loving feelings of yours.

Month: June 2020

The Thief Of Dreams.

The Burning Pages.