So saddened is the heart that beats within,
that once sought refuge 'neath this poet's quill.
Who longed for crafting verse from love to sin,
but now such words so seldomly fulfill.

When writing once held purpose to his soul,
the poetry would flow with ease and grace.
Yet time has slowly withered 'neath its toll
the will he thought that time could not erase.

But clearly he has found this wish as ruse,
for years now mask the passion of the write.
It's not this severed path that he would choose.
it's not a willing course what's stained in blight.

Remembering the beauty so sublime,
each waking breath held treasures meant to scribe.
Too easily the world at will would rhyme,
and all the woes of burdens would subside.

Each season held the gems of sight and sound,
uniquely cast amid their own array.
The details few would see, the poet found,
then painted within words a grand display.

Like crackling under foot of fallen leaves,
or breath suspended in the bitter cold,
the vibrant hues a rising dawn would seize,
the budding of a rose as it unfold.

No avenue was ever left unturned.
So endless were the venues for to pen,
'tween love and war where pain or passion burned,
amid the deeds of good or evil men.

Attention paid to balance held pristine,
ensuring every write was free of flaws.
With patience he would mold each precious scene,
For nothing less than perfect aids the cause.

He'd pay such special heed to graceful flow,
essential was the element for poise.
A skill he once applied so long ago
that seemingly the lack of want destroys.

Like shards of splintered glass beneath the skin,
the wounds too often scar a yearning heart.
Now sadness is a veil that covers him,
when poetry's no longer viewed as art.

Perhaps a day shall come that changes this,
then once again the world might shine in scribe.
When words are felt to blossom into bliss...
where poetry's convincingly alive.