That you never know
What things you hold dear
No, not things
But ideas, dreams, arguments
And what images are buried deep
Into you soul
Until you start writing poems
And the same themes
Appear over and over again
Separated by a few years
Or mere months
Written in different languages
Or with different examples perhaps
But the same,
Exactly the same motifs
Over and over again
It is as if
A mode count of themes
Could give
The essense of your soul
That probably is because You doesn't change
ReplyDeleteYou's soul is the same
It's the same game
With different names
this is not poem :)