Went out on streets, a poem,
To become lines on walls,
Wounds in hearts,
Longing in souls,
On behalf of its verses.
Born in streets, the poem,
To become a fountain,
Shadow in dells,
For passions hidden in these shadows,
On behalf of its disaffection.
Always returned to streets, the poem,
To become paving stones,
Benches under street lights,
Against artificiality of ponds in parks,
In wrath of human inconsistencies!
Still on streets, the poem,
Never to return homes governed by lies,
One evening to faint on a lonely road,
In the middle of a wreck without any steps on,
To die there alone,
Only poets to cry on its name,
Only those poems to be deemed martyrs of love..
To man on street,
To ice in cold,
To tears of the lonely,
To meaninglessness of crowds,
To gray color of cities,
It will touch them all,
Come like spring, the poem,
For those looking for true feelings,
For those failed in finding love,
For those torn down with craving,
Only those still remaining a human!
Meo - 2018
LiteraryBlog.net - Meo's Poems Blog