".. shy they are,
when held in closed eyes,
when words can be touched,
and warmth of breaths felt,
so one can say,
they never lie,
but emotions do lie.."
"..frozen they become,
to cheat the toil,
of accepting they care,
to calm the turmoil,
of suspension of lies,
so you can say,
they are dry,
but emotions never turn dry.."
"..and when aged,
they are kept sealed,
still they are getting stolen,
through open eyes,
no one can say,
they never cry,
but emotions do cry.."
Love holds the beauty,
and beauty creates poetry,
he thought,
and as it no longer exists within,
how can he embrace his words.
Moving beyond this world,
creates poetry,
He thought,
and then that night,
he crumbled when wine couldn't help.
On the urge to bring one out,
he detached and torn,
those virgin pages,
and the dried ink of his pen,
scribbled to play with his mind.
He sang it to the world,
and played it on his guitar,
he touched the moving words,
felt love over his scars,
and then he opened his eyes.
. .
