The heavens revolving around a worried little orb,
poets with wings looking down from above.
They write their sonnets and ballades and more,
thinking, what do they know of death and love?
Those in the flock know nothing of the outside,
oblivious to the wolves circling ever nearer.
The feet of the innocent wade in reddening tides,
saying, what do they know of hope and fear?
Castles made of clouds where angels reside,
hungry for the souls of the poets still living.
Paradoxes written on tombstones where bodies died,
showing, what do they know of breathing and believing?
The tears start flowing and the inkwells run dry,
poets curl up and sink into the clouds.
The writing of elegies where emotions decry,
claiming, what do they know of loneliness in crowds?