A poet to every written word in leaves onward to the birds without a song,
Fallen leaves from the trees of the poetess and poets,
These birds of words swinging their beautiful wings only to have never flown higher than their voices but to sour in our minds and take us gliding,
Their words rushing in like the ocean as they brutally try to drone us in realization.
But I have seen them falling,
The passionate hearts of theirs seemed to be passionately killing them.
To have lost the true meaning to Strong wilds stealing their leaves only to fall painfully empty to reality,
The reaching hands of their creations had seemed to have the need to create,
To create the Artist anew and to consume the humanity and replace it with it's own passion given to it.
Embrace the last of the truth left.