There is a language dead
that grips the heart
from deep within its crypt.
We speak of red roses
and lift our heads
to the gates of heaven and slip
unnoticed between the bars
and keep a piece of it within;
Paradise on earth and roses,
found in symbols and heart shaped lockets
of lovers both mad and hopeless,
is as eternal as the stars
and our drifting through the ocean
to find that image solid
enough to tell the loveless
that two Emoji’s of kindred spirit
will never drift apart,
but it takes a search of oceans
to know just who we are.
The Poetry Of J.P. 