Be a poet is a shirt,
We all could choose to wear.

Be an artist is a style,
We all could choose to sketch.

What scare us the most,
Is the face of pain.

We escape all of our life,
and what is funny,
It always caught up,
Not matter,
How fast or slow,
One runs.

I love pain,
And her sister, sorrow,
Both are great gurus in mastery of self.
They show the magical spin of love
In my vein.

I pick up what is left,
After they departure,
To Proceed to unknown.

Brave warriors live there,
Must learn and step forward,
I proceed with no argue.

© Serena Devi, March 2010, Thornhill Canada

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