POET fires a candle, low light but illuminating, Nostradamus Style.
This writer finds he’s chasing words alone, been living a life of lies all the while, thinking things over a certain way, pushing off from the shore in style, finding few that with him go.
In his time he was after, exploring the deeper things, so happy with all the birds that sing, found out that what was important to him, most humans dared not see.
In his mind, he felt slaughtered, left to die in a Van Gogh field, his sword from sheath slow pulled, but it he could not wield, so he gave into the forces, from his bone, flesh was peeled.
