We all wrote at some point,
Sometime and somehow,
We dedicated poems to someone,
We told about the thorny path.
We loudly praised nature,
Somewhere pompously,
Somewhere about animals
And we wrote poems about love
With its own plot and friends.
Every poet in his own sentury
And creates the prose of life,
To end life on the chopping block,
No one wants, but they will die.
The poet
© Copyright: Лана Веритэ, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124100400394
Свидетельство о публикации №124100400394
Рецензии