Perhaps it is time to pull aside the sheets of philosophies and hypothesis. Poetry continues however - someone bit by the poetry bug lives and dies in poetry .
The most beautiful poetry is perhaps read in the depths of those eyes where every lil movement fills a new meaning to the verse , where the lashes and tears form the punctuations , where the smile of the lids form the rhythm.
And you can feel it even with your eyes closed.
When you say nothing and when someone reads your mind ... and when someone doesnt speak and you read his mind - i wonder if language is just an illusion.
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