In a world ruled by gods and men,
who holds in their hand nature's pen?

When words are smitten to deaf ears,
dost one conclude their deepest fears?

Thy skilled soothsayer is portrayed,
as nothing more than a beggar paid.

A wandering derelict of the past,
his bardic tongue now shall avast.

On a park bench, he sleeps at night,
oft Poe's "The Raven" he does recite.

'Tis thy chilly nights he dreads the most,
so in his prose, he gets engrossed.

The birds doth come and hearken in,
as he weaves his tales and rhymes within.

This man was once like you and me,
so sad this world could never see.

To the wilting flower, I give no sympathy,
Or the blooming of a bud does not interest me.

Nor the stem that gives it birth,
or even its bed, the earth.

No colour scheme captures my eye,
from its beauty, I shall not sigh.

Through all the seasons that we face,
we are one with time and space.

So in my thoughts, I remain aware,
of my consciousness I take care.

Understanding emotions are fleeting,
analyze the flower as part of life's greeting.

Be the river that comes and goes,
divert into outlets as it flows.

Be the desert but not the storms,
watch the oasis as it forms.