If this is not consecration, then what else can it be?
When heaven's breath dowses the flames of the sea
And the common people forage in glorified whittle
The poet seeks understanding in a heavenly riddle
Dropping tears for burning grass and broken hearts
The world feels better, as a part of his spirit departs
To far places that behold no moonlight or sunshine
Expressions of mind and an unexperienced valentine
While the rest of the earth, grows pale and fades away
He wanders blind for tomorrow to meet him midway
Unreasonable and lost, whispering to elements unseen
The poet is a dying tree, fine and fragile as plasticine
All burning essence, intangible and irrelevantly beautiful
Scarcely within reality, he dreams of madness thoughtful
The poet's mind's a temple and nature's worshipped there
The fault in our stars and love's mistakes he tries to repair
The universe rests to burn as the poet sings about adobe
If this is not injudicious misery, then what else can it be?
His heart's heavy, laden be with complimenting the night
Longing for possessions not meant for he's filled with spite
The poet's a stream of fire and ash surrounded by wildlife
While the rest of humanity stretches in meals of loosestrife
He seeks out the edges of loneliness and death, to dream
Making sweet magnificent melodies from his every scream.
