The beauty of mortality

All that is mortal will wither,
For that is beauty will ever last,
And yes the beauty is mortal,
For it lay in eyes of mortal men.
Love not immortality for then there is no pain,
The moments of beauty is best remembered,
In the last wishes of dying men.

Last acts

Some walls are put up on one side,
They are cemented on the other.
The hearth warms the kitchen there,
Warmth cannot pass the dark here.
A joker has but a single act,
The world loves him,
And we move on to the other parts.
The mask of the freak hails a gasp,
The ugly face within was always a farce.
The beast never heeds a master,
But the sound of the whip stills it heart.
And forever is that tamed,
The roar that was the lay of the bards.
And yet the masks are loved,
And a joker brings claps.
The tamed beast is yet a thing of awe,
Though the lives are a remnant of past.

Secret codes

When even a fake smile is guilty!
What of the bottle at sea,
The one to find will not see,
In strange hands will my message be.
Little that a poet writes
Will ever for a world to see.
But for the secret entrusted,
None will the wiser be.

Crossroads

Standing by the waters that make life,
And watch the sea shells tumbling,
The salty tang of the soapy breeze,
My memories will not let me be.
Little things wash by slow into the sea,
What it has taken time will let it be,
Wish we could reach into those days,
Wish I could wade and fade into the sea.
The serrated clouds that stay aloof,
They glisten in the closeted sun,
Though they may never hide it too,
But cotton angels will never let a burn.

Mountains and flowers

The little flower always smiled,
It always did smile,
With love it lived.
Never did it see  the dark,
Never did it love death,
Never did it stop the smile.
So many did trample,
The same people that lived.
They lived,
They sang,
True they were,
But they always did walk.
For even a flower learns.
Even a mountain learns,
A flower not so much,
For fewer times does a boot harm,
A mountain stands to be trod.

Untirles

When we have seen those days,
Where little kids play around the hearth,
And when the heart has been around the world,
And still we hold on to small moments.

Where have we hid our smiles,
That cometh thither is times of melancholy,
Needs not the sanguine bear fruit,
Love speaks not Shakespeare to live.

Indifferent poet

Words are not them,
Silence is not it,
And when the words are over,
Heart it is that will bleed.

Time ages not my heart,
Pain drains not my love.
Red is not always bled,
A pen is not always words.

My shadows are not me,
My actions hide behind,
Truth is not always the face,
For masks conceal all beneath.

My graves are not mine,
They will hide a different me,
My epitaph another will write,
In death my story is not me.

What was is what has gone,
Little regrets are but moments apiece,
My heart is mine till it beats,
The world I shape is not me.

Contempt I have seen,
Distance has been a kin,
What my words beg of me,
Indifferent poet I have been.