Book Of Emotions
Life starts at a flower's bloom,
in splashes of waves it's jaunted
soothed under it's own sea spray
to it's fullest, life is lived through love.
If only could walls talk,
query a query, "Where is the love"
the least hidden under folded pages,
scrapped off walls of a broken heart.
Where is the love? Affright in freight,
aboard a paper plane flight,
or frothed in spits of effervesce
transpired, dead and gone?
There is the love, in darkness,
adrift in wilts of meaninglessness,
where trust is traded for weakness
eschewed, wrapped up for loneliness.
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I am humbled you found pleasure in writing back.