Poetry isn't written:
                                                        ­                                    
Words are written,
and Poetry is read.

Steel are the lines trapped in the faces once lost
Seldom seen or heard but felt stolen in a cost
As is the tree, always bound to the dirt
So is the soul, to the feelings it has hurt

One can run from the soul’s inner reflections
Yet the soul lacks being whole to this direction
For light sees truths where dark may simply not
Neither forces recruitment as each soul’s battle is fought

Difficult to see the victor when the war rages on
One may never see until the light is almost gone
Yet the darkness can never **** brightness in light
Because one without the other is to never have the fight