Collection of Poetry

As riders upon a train

The purpose of life

is to love — and be loved.

Nothing more, nothing less

as the pragmatic-minded might advise.


If doing neither — loving and being loved — then,

what is it that engages your time

but a game of waiting, waiting and waiting

for the perfect moment to arrive.


In time wasted on waiting for make-believe moments

we are riders upon trains traveling past

forsaken villages

where strangers wait — alone

for the sun to warm their cold shoulders

and a pleasant wind to stir

whatever memory

they might have

of kindness,

and the moment

when love arrived and it felt

like everything and nothing else


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