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Poet To Cynic
Purple hue of sunsets, timeless laughter, moments
Of love and passion and yet more could I write.
Emotions worn like fresh laundry, vulnerable
To the stains of life, so readily soiled.
Time - Thief! - steals passion's fire
Or at least the needed magic words
Continuous sensory assaults
Yield an unwitting change
Naught or less of poet
I wear the garb of
Cynic
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Stare at a blank page before you
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Man In The Mirror:
The eyes seem bright and stern
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The smile seems one so peaceful
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There he is again,
looking out at me.
He's always been there hiding
whenever I took time to see.
He always seemed to grow
at the
REFLECTION
Looking in the mirror
What is it that I see?
A girl so shrewd and lonely
Unrecognizabl e to me
Her hair is all but limp
And
by Similitude
To you I am nothing more than a punching bag
Though unused you look upon me with fists of fury
Beating me with your heated
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Poetry: Looking in the mirror
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