The silent atrophy of feeling,
Like blood seeping into the ground.
A desecration of careful thought.
And guarded manners decaying.

Those who claim the edges,
of sanity and genius are hazed,
See only what is before their eyes.
A calm fire burns there.
Eating reams of creativity.

Self proclaimed ingenuity,
Grow and blossom like the,
Brilliant white morning glory.
And soft as wool, their faces,
streaked with tears.

The dead walk strong,
In the pages of history,
Their stories ever-long.

But each of us need not err.
Lest our hearts err too.
And I stand for the manifest,
Strength so present.

Cry for me and of poets long dead,
Their works crocheted into my heart.
Slender needles of thought,
Gently pierce my musing.

Believe in the sheer will,
And find joy in all you hear.
For the gold chests of the ages long past,
cannot crush the power,
of words.

Words are a scared tool,
often betrayed,
sputtered upon a page without a thought.

Standing amongst a forest of quills.
Each alone in separate trains of thought,
Each sporadic and alone,
Know not my feelings,
For they can prick and pull,
Forth the scarlet seed.

I alone, I forever, can,
See myself.
No man can tell me where,
I come from or came to be.
For the beginning is twisted and upturned.

The final thought is the worst,
For conclusions are a hasty mess.
Stand alone and live eternal.
Think with the power of your heart.