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"She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by—
And never knew."

Sheldon Allan “Shel” Silverstein (1930 - 1999) was an American poet, cartoonist, singer-songwriter, screenwriter, and children books author. His work has been translated into more than 30 languages and his books have sold over 20 million copies. Among his most memorable books are: "Where the Sidewalk Ends (1974), The Missing Piece (1976). After the 1970's, Silverstein continue releasing memorable children’s titles, among them A Light in the Attic (1981), and The Missing Piece Meets the Big O (1981).

“Masks”  tells the story of two wandering souls who never find each other because of their failure to show themselves as they truly were. Source: from Silverstein's book of poems called Everything On It. A collection of poems  published posthumously by Harper and Row Publishers in 2011.

Fighting insanity,
every day,
as my life,
slips away.

I feel good,
is what to know,
for my life is my
own traveling show.

How it will end
everyone will know
for I may well be
the next one to go.

A simple poem,
it means so much,
for I may have
lost my writing touch.

Of love
and loss,
of a soul,
such as she.
What happens
now, when her
soul is free.

Life is short,
full of many treasures now.
Times change and here you are,
unable to maintain your vow.

She is gone,
away from thee.
You will never more,
her face to see.

Loneliness becomes
a part of your life,
for you no longer have,
your beautiful wife.

I miss you,
my darling soul,
but will soon be there,
and we'll be whole.

The finality of life,
as we know it today,
will soon change,
and go away.

It's OK for in this,
our life's cycle here,
will bring forth a
time which we held dear.

Life must end,
this we know.
I wish to exit quietly,
as my final show.

There are time when,
we should reflect on life.
This is one of those times,
when faced with strife,

you find there are outside,
influences effecting your way
of thinking. How you view,
what once was a safe day.

It is unfortunate, when life,
doesn't remain the same,
and we revert to calling it,
by another name.

A small fire,
with embers bright,
a perfect place to
contemplate tonight.

In the early days of my writing,
I chose to write verse,
or in my case, rhyming poetry.
I didn't know, for it was terse.

When we write of things,
which memory supplies,
may we assume we know,
before the memories dies?

My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.

Marianne Craig Moore (1887 – 1972). American modernist poet, critic, translator, and editor. She is consider one of American literature’s foremost poets. Her poetry is noted for its precise diction, irony, and wit. She was nominated for the 1968 Nobel Prize in Literature.
This poem is in the public domain.

Love has, many memories.
Here is one of imagination,
which I wish I could revisit.