The Fallen

When dark clouds descend on her eyes Her pale skin exudes a cindery sadness Pints of bloods flow out her vein The stubborn poet breaks down. All his creative resolves deliriums Adorned garlands of his mind His visions beyond the present Mock him draws him in her pain. What remains of him is not a poet Not one looking down from a pedestal But a mere mortal brutally battered Brought down to earth crushed. For the swells in her heart Her futilely seeking oasis Wind drift to no anchor His poetry is a lavish indulgence.