a paradise for poets, for tortured souls
the ones that stay by the abandoned homes
there is no Heaven for the suffering
there is only death and struggling.
Dante claimed peace to be Limbo,
there must be more than that, though.
it had nothing to be a muse
maybe that's not much to lose
the real hell for dreamers is this world
it kills all of their hopeful work
the artists and writers suffer here
this land is the sum of fear.
but where does the soul find peace,
when do the poets get to believe?
some say peace is in the souls of others,
best friends, soulmates, or pretty lovers
others find it in a flower or a place
but no colorful bloom will stay.
perhaps their solace is their rhymes
moments unsaid written in the lines
one look betrays the heart's violence
the poets curse is to write silence;
his life merely ink stains on paper
that once belonged to a dreamer
the world left his hopes broken
so the dreamer turned into a poet.