Write poetry, his heart did tell him.

So he closed his eyes and described a tree,
But it's verdant leaves built upon great,
Amber seams. Did not settle the ache.

In fact the more his minds eye did capture the veins coursing, Pre-written, as if trapped by fate, so too did he feel more empty.

The harder I sought to hold the feeling of the wind, cool and comfortable, like a child's blanket, on that warm day.

The deeper I needed to tell the world, or just a someone, how the city lights gleamed upon the burgundy sunset, how right it felt to be there in that moment as the world changed, just so before me.

The desire continued only more, the hunger it would not stop, it was ravenous, as I idled by thinking of how to capture the light in her eyes, even as my heart now breaking, like raging waves upon land anchoring some apple dangling, twisting, and snapping back just out of the wrathful sea.

But the fruit of knowledge isn't for me. Even if I were to have it, never could I see. I'd be blind, even with omnipotence, ah even with her praise... I'd just smile for a little while... but then... I'd get hungry.

How can I get it back, how can I trade my love in word? No when I can only paint the shades of black. When I want the horror and lust, and not the beautiful rust, of words and ink bleeding on the page of, just... I don't know.

My metaphors ran out. I guess my hunger won out because they say at the end you don't starve anymore. You're delusional and delirious and the endorphins and your mind finds peace, and the emptiness that lies beyond.

Ah because that's where I am now. The place which poetry has given me. A gift or a curse. I know not anymore to decide.