He spoke of love in dismal silence
Held his pen and wrote the words
Used his wits on promises devoid of meaning
Held his truthful lies inscribed in scrolls
He the poet
Whose heart was killed by a lost love
Whose soul bled from a morbid assault
Whose body is sheltered on burning ice
Blessed with a passion
Of manipulating words on his sage
With the gift
Of using words to let his heart utter its speech
With the curse
Of loving and losing that which he loves
Blessed yet afflicted
He the poet
Whose precious tongue
Is his pen
Whose speech is made of paper
He the poet
Trapped on prevaricated world
Confined in images of long forgotten past
Lost in a confused world of unfound solitude
Imprisoned by fatal tribulations
He the poet
Whose eyes gaze with luminous light
Whose life is pinned on a calling
A troubled heart only can satisfy
He the poet
A martyr, a victim of his own fate
