成人快手

On registering with Island Blogging, poetry was mentioned as a subeject I hoped to touch on.I would,therefore, like to share with you, "Shorline", a composition of my own as far back as the 8os which is about the time I started applying pen to paper.

What's the definition of poetry? I don't know; except ofcourse,maybe:a pen, blank piece of paper and plenty inspiration.
I wouldn't mind if someone told me if this attempt of mine is worthy of the name poetry:

I stood by the shorline of my life
Dead to the world around,
The sands of time lay at my feet
Dimpled like an eider down quilt;
I could see the hour - glass that
never ends
Lapped by the tide,
Where could I find a sight more true
Than the sand and the tide:

The road of life,of times,has little
joy or wonder,
Each hour is full of strange
forebodings;
It is not dimpled gently like the
silver sand,
Nor like the hue of the rippling sea
which stands beyond:

The shoreline of my life is a real one,
With a vast view;
It is a living vibrating entity of sand
and shingle and sea;
Beyond the rocks of its domain
ever pounded,
So I shall gaze,as standing by this
eternal beauty:

This is the shorline of my life,
I shall not be completely filled,
By the worlds vacant gifts;
While the mighty creation beyond the
land remains,
No other shorline do I seek
but this timeless one.

Island Wanderer.