Poetic-Verses
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The flanked high hill?
Sit there and cry
And all day sick
Pipsqueak and weak
Cobweb and twid:
What make you sick!
It's all your choice
Whether unseen
Or figurines
Spiritual things
Chuckling lanterns
You can handle.
Bombs in your mind
Because of bombs
Miles far away?
Should you be there
Amidst the bombs,
You'd die untouched.
The journey starts
The journey ends
Within your mind
Without a prove
None judging you:
“I can't be good.”
It's left for you
To dig again
Till you find oil
Men have but dug
From where you stand
Abundant good.
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