{Of all lies, art is the least untrue - Flaubert}

Friday, May 20, 2005

On Life Lived

The Summer of Love may find itself too dry ,
The Winters and Springs either aint too great.
The Seasons of love will all be the same ,
Probably its love's only trait.

The haze-maze of life seems too difficult to follow,
The regularities of life are just same to endure.
The Lust for life is blood for we-vampires ,
The surety of death is the only cure.

The Elixir of life, the pleasure of pain ,
The Touch of Truth, the deep flights onto highs.
The misery of existence and the triumphs of spirit ,
All engraved in our experiences, rest all dies.

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