A weaver of words in deep quiet reflects
In his mind’s prism, many a thought deflects
Within him the rainbow colours of passion rage
      He scripts songs of beauty and rhyme on page after page

      He has no magic, neither erudite nor clever
But hungry souls, his poems avidly devour
Stirring their hearts as wind on whispering leaves
And each line, some alluring fancy weaves

As from pen to paper his fancies flow
In a lingua that has an unusual glow
Though a great epic may not be born
His songs move even hearts of flint n’ stone

He sings the paeans of love and life
Of men in cross roads of toil and strife
He awakens dead worlds long forgotten
Taking us to magic lands never trodden

      His songs have echoes of a heavenly rhapsody
Drowning the Earth in flooding melody
Fuelling hearts with thoughts one cannot name
Spawning tempestuous passions one cannot tame

Of all the places
she sought to hide
She only found one
safe place inside
in dancing images
where the poetry
resides.

Daylight filled
with gold was
broken like a
mirror by the
haunted mist
of midnight.

The crickets
were singing
their lullaby
on the late
summer breeze.

My heart
slowly listened,
As lonely as the
howling wind
outside my window.

And i knew it
was Autumn,
As the auburn leaves
in the forest fell,
so did i,
So did I...

The blazing
flame of the
dark lantern
was shining
brightly
as it reflected
in the
Woodsman's
auburn eyes.
Lost souls
take no
pleasure in
being found.
Little pieces of
glowing embers
were swiftly
carried away
by the autumn
wind in the
melancholy air
of old memories.
Like a
starry breeze
of dying fire,
whispering into
the stalking
night,
singing its
mortal melody
to the
wayward pines.
And so he
slowly disappeared
in the moonlit fog,
more lost than
he could have
ever realised.
Deeper and deeper in
the unknown...