So many left, the shaded paths in this  kind wood,
words of beauty recited here  forgotten forever,
blossoms of   friendships withered and thrown out.
Found nothing to tell as muse hid behind a haze,
or got dejected as gilt-edged words didn't meet expectations?
Too many waves of destruction one can't fight, one after another,
hence verse became meaningless?
Poetry makes nothing happen, someone said, once
is it after all true? But a vision of beauty humanizes, we feel it,
everything depends up on perspectives,
poetry happens when an immortal moment touches deep,
what changes inner life echoes in eternity, one gains wings.
The flow  never ceases, it goes on beyond time.
Know thyself. Be in the stream. Flow with the
stream of consciousness that weaves all in to one.
Does it make any sense? if so poetry too  is.
Why did they leave even without a word?
Are they in greener woods, in some other pursuit?
bless them, let them find peace in their quest.