If Poetry was cornered,
and about to be scorched alive
he would stand still and strong
despite the quivering fear inside.

His murderers would begin to sneer,
watching Death dangle minutes away,
and torcher him before they'd say:
"Any last words, on your last day?"

He'd swiftly swing open,
his delicate pages aflutter
as their wretched smiles
start to crack and sputter,
in shock at the boldness
of being openly sighted
and so very vulnerable
to being instantly ignited
just to save the great works
of all the world's poets,
who poured out their hearts
so purposefully in pen.

They'd see pieces of Poe,
about to exist Nevermore.
The words of Angelou,
with emotion in store.

Frost and Untaken Roads
that now all lead to Death.
Wordsworth's wisest words,
soon to take a final breath.

Eliot and The Wasteland
will find one another soon.
Not even sad Shakespeare
is going to last till' noon.

As the observing evildoers watched,
Poetry paused on a piece prepared:
"Because I Could Not Stop for Death,"
to which they remorsefully stared.

What a shame it would be,
said proud Poetry,
to let these legacies die.
the spirits of every poet
will haunt you if you try!

The mob looked at one another,
and quickly fled the scene,
leaving the ending as happy as
A Midnight Summers Dream!

In sweet Springtime
the fields are abuzz,
while the breeze whispers
the scattered secrets
of compassionate couples,
who met during the season. 

A picturesque paradise,
is peppered with flowers
that gracefully sway
atop the rolling hills
with their blooms held high,
colorful and confident.

Forest leaves rustle quietly
sighing softly like a lover
dreaming of their soulmate,
as birds flit between branches,
making their humble abode
in the boughs of fond memories.

Spring rejoices for a while,
bringing beauty out of burrows
and sprouting the shyest of seeds
before it carefully takes the earth,
and almost reluctantly, places it
into Summer's waiting hands,
as it wholeheartedly promises
to return once again
as it always has,
every year.