A poem is a stroll upon the boulevard of time.
Strolling and holding the one you love.
A poem brings up many memories,
Sometimes soft and gentle like the coo of a dove.
This boulevard has no time limit, it knows no map.
You just stroll up and down the path, listening to nature’s taps.
Taps the rain makes as it slaps the wet ground,
Taps the wind makes as it gently blows all around.
This boulevard cannot be found on any map, some say it doesn’t exist.
But that answer is between you and your heart.
Expressing your feelings as a true artist.
It’s not a magic street, it contains no tricks.
It’s just a place a person can go to get away, and attempt their problems… to fix.
The time of day is completely up to you.
The weather, the plants. The buildings, that too.
So the next time you see a person down and in a pout,
Ask them to come with you down the boulevard of time so their misery can be taken out.
So share your wisdom with others, and don’t be unkind.
For you were once pouty, until someone took you down the boulevard of time.