Mar 20

Petrichor left his penumbra seduced,
It was nature's lagniappe framed;
To assure rest and soothe to his soul,
His name was trohedus-created out of loves truth.

To be given such a title was never his first truth,
His major interest lingered in the cloud's and in the sounds,
To be framed as some paragon was not what he was proud of,
So nature's arms were always opened for him.

His art was to heal people and being's through his instrument,
What had been woven into his soul, hadn't vanished as he grew,
And whenever he played his sublime sounding machine,
It not only came alive but it breathed the very same air he breathed.

His music acted as an emollient for wrenched souls,
It could be anything that the beings might be suffering,
So his passion and his loved combined acted as an ether for lost souls,
For love was his name and he was natures granted lagniappe.

He did his magical work living in the forests way,
For his essence could only last as he was connected to this play,
This harbinger, poet and a being of poise was always filled with felicity,
Wherever he moved everything was attracted to his beauty.