We are the protectors and destroyers of this planet. It's an entangled irony, but true. We create and care, because we love. And when that love dissolves into nothing more than cold breaths and abandoned letters, we destroy it. We undo all the love into its initial form, hate. But it continues. It's a cycle, you see. It really doesn't have a designated destination. It is a song with no lyrics, no tune, no composer, no nothing. It's just a song. Yeah, a song.
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Can Poetry Heal? - Collections of a Wanderer
PoetryIs there a way out from this labyrinth? Maybe in poems and unsaid love we can seek refuge. Perhaps, this is what we stay alive for.
