Sometime is that appointment, the final one to meet. Let's color all with love, for Time is naught but fleet.
Anger is a wound gone mad.
Our lives are fictions, a work we leave behind, signed.
Truth may sometimes hurt, but delusion harms.
Fear plants the whisper to beware but doesn't look to see who's there.
Poetry is our heart, our spirit, our soul. Call it whatever; without it, everything else is nothing but hardware.