Tattered shadows lay across
True beauty disguised as dross.
Sullen forms on the surface lay.
Shining gold,
Dormant.
Reflections of Yeats' pavement grey.
But joy cannot,
And will not,
Be kept at bay.
From those who seek.
Those children,
Lost,
Wanderers,
The meek.
They will not find,
For they do not seek.
Gold lays beneath the veil,
A cascade of dust,
Broken fragments,
Of a child's forgotten fairytale.
Look upwards.
And you shall prevail,
Life a sinking boat,
Which you must bail.
Happiness cannot be expected,
It is you.
Yourself, your gilded thoughts,
The part inside that lays,
Neglected.
Happiness,
comes from within,
To on the surface be reflected.
Reflections will appear,
In things far and near.
Cast off the sullen cloak,
Have.
No.
Fear.
Happiness is not him
Or her
Or it.
Happiness is not some thing
Is not a bottle,
Nor in a book writ.
It lays beneath the grime, and grit,
A candle,
Waiting patiently,
To be lit.
A Love Poem. Thin strands of gold, With the shine that made Jason so bold , Fine tendrils of oriental lace Which frame her most perfect face. She is a perfect specimen. An icon of the human race. Her smile is so sweet, A face I long to meet. She is beauty personified, Such looks as hers, Stray beyond what the world deserves. For she is a gift, like Jesus' myrrh, Like the hellenic sirens, Her looks capture and allure. Her beauty radiates through the night, Angelic, a reverent sight. A Lighthouses beacon beaming, Guiding through the clouds teeming with that solemn murk, which chokes our joy. To think her potential lacks is false, Like the self doubt she harbours sure. Her features, inwards and out Are strands of a web. Threads beautiful alone, But create nature's art, That will never ebb. The light of joy she brings, Draws me in with awestruck gaze, like the songs the Greek Calypso Relayed. Her looks divine, Matched with a brain so fine, Her mind the work of a Go...
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