Far across the sunset, there's an unending light.
The shining gold pot end, to this terrible night.
The lands there are pink and green,
lush with victory fruits.
They said the sun never sets there
and music never fails the flutes.
To think of the land of love, oh love!
How clean the water might be.
Is it as clear as my nightmares,
or as cleaned as my memory?
The clouds there shower luck not rains.
Imagine drowning in there.
In that case will I really drown?
or will I float around in despair?
The lands past the sunset,
boards happy loving citizens.
Their longer and larger days,
time waits for those denizens.
The warmth and chill is the same,
the exact amount of comfort.
Anyone can board the train they said,
but just a little more effort.
Past the sunset the land of fun,
is like a light outside the tunnel.
But stuck in between infinite sunrises,
the lands sound delusional.
For if there is a land that they said,
why are all in the tunnel with me?
The gold pot that no one has ever seen.
Are they just humoring me?
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
