May the words upon this page,
Make you feel something you understand,
Not just the passing of age,
But more a finding of tranquil land.
Where you learn from words themselves,
And they are no longer simply books on shelves,
Where you escape the bonds of anti-linguisticy,
And often explore non-reality.
I'd make a world where poems were the common tongue,
Where in writing meaningful ones we had fun,
Where in your mind you could freely run,
And in this world you'd stay so young.
In this land of imagination,
I can't help but think it's God's own nation,
Waiting for us up there in the sky,
Where no man could reach or even dare to fly.
But I must remain down here,
To fulfill my unpoetic lifetime,
And keep shedding tears,
For it seems I can't even write a rhyme . . .
A