The child is long dead
And someone has taken his place...
Rolling on a mountain
Rolling down to the hills...
***Another hopeless romantic poem.
To, you...
We are the hollow men
Those without faces...
Finding love in this lonely world
Was like finding a needle in a haystack...
You were hanging up high,
taking mouthfuls of silly grass...
Work hard, stay in school
dye your soul...
No uttered words the poet speaks,
No skies of golden hue...
This is one of my many masks,
me staring through the broken glass...