Can't there be more,
Else that's so high?
More to life's lore,
Than live to die?
.
Each breath tick-tocks
till the very end.
Borne by ev'n clocks,
till steeply bend.
.
Then why wouldn't-
there be much more?
Love, glee and mirth,
'side work and snore.
.
If 'twill all end
as passing night.
Life, will i spend-
With great delight.
.
Without a cringe-
Or baseless fright.
But ever hinge-
To hope with might.
-----------
Vittorio_topaz
YOU ARE READING
THE BLUE
Poetry...just words, with more meaning than length can tell, just like the heart. We call them poems, but I tag it, 'the blue'...
