Some bad poetry
Between you and me
My dumping ground
Fault lines
Agape with futility.
We live and we learn
(Or do we?),
It's playback time
When we care to earn
The will o' the wisp
Wisdom passing by.
No age is just a number
When progression
Is Linear entropic
When your number comes up
It just does
You in.
You died.
And that is why
We lived.
Reason enough
For a series
Of tete a tete
Life dialogues
Coffeehouse conversations
Diabolical.
So much love
To live
(Or To die for),
Eighty odd years
Are not enough
All those hard earned
Life lessons
Those ample tears
Amorous moments
When spirit kneeling
Kisses reeling soul.
Healing All
Of me that dwells
In chimerical memories.
The hardest labor
Of love
Is Death
Life presents
Us only this
Term insurance.
I guess I will
Never ever get it.
Why I write
the way I do
Why eyes closed in the dark
Lights a brilliant hue, blue
Fire light in the mind
Why mornings dwell
In the chill of future
While evening creeps up
Like a lusty lover
From behind.
There now
My dumpster
Is full-on target
emptied on you
Take what you will.
Take me as I am...
Or as you will.
I call it poetry
For lack of better words
Sacrificing Art,
To describe
The beauty
Of my despair.
(c) Amrita Valan 2016
