Balance is beautiful,
symmetry looks clean
Perfection, unattainable
except maybe, in a dream
Love may be delicate
Yet incalculably strong
Lies can bring us comfort
when a truth, seems wrong
Denial has a reason
refusal, making sense
Acceptance is unbearable
vicarious life, might content
What really matters,
to me, perhaps others
Condemned, or condoned
poetry’s my release, not to suffer
By
David Kavanagh
The telephone rings and the voice you hear
Repeats the thought in your brain:
Just synchronicity, loud and clear,
Links you on some esoteric plane.
It’s not telepathy, mind-to-mind,
But incalculably doubtful odds,
Defying coincidence, like a blind
Toss of the dice by the gambling gods.
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