Words are
worthless.
Graves
waiting to be filled.
Shadows of
matter
In a world
we did not build.
Soft-spoken
poets suffer
For they’re
afraid of sorrow
Outspoken
poets suffer
For they’re
afraid of tomorrow.
Sorrow from
bothering
The sickness
of the departing;
The future
is a new present
In which
lost souls are reuniting.
The poet who
surrenders
To the soft
hand of time
Understands
the tie
And awaits
for it to unwind.
Before he says goodbye,
He hopes to
have traveled at least
The distance
between two hearts
So that his mind
can rest in peace.
Then,
Even his
shadow will dance.
