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Taste of Life: a Poem
Some impatient verses stuck in his throat
with a glitter in the eye of a tear that won't form,
a distant sad piano's fading last note,
and a poet's Muse hesitant, even though warm.
Night. Long, and yet not long enough
for all those rhymes choking but not birthing,
while a mocking mind shoots some crazy stuff
with buried alive sentiment begging for unearthing.
Half a bottle later, the clock chimes coming sooner,
and then dam gives in, words spill all heavy and true,
a poet comes out of that disconnected mooner
with some finest words that his soul could brew.
Verse after verse in dizzying waltz of rhymes,
words drawing hearts with arrows in them,
a face-tick of smile brings up some happy times
one more sip, and a "cheers" to the rose collapsed on its stem.
The poem is done, but why so incomplete?
Why so much more feels left out and untold?
Not enough bitter, and not enough sweet
something that in poem just couldn't unfold.
Is the taste of life impossible to share?
Is it something doomed to forever stay mute?
Well, why even bother, and why should we care,
let's leave it mysterious, cute, and sometimes brute.