So many words of romance and lust,
He can hardly ever know which is real;
The heat that makes his soul combust
and they who breathe what he can feel.

He can never find proper words
nor more then hope that all is right.
When whispers reach highways of birds
He only has one home in sight.

No definition is needed, for he
has no tears to mourn, no desire to pray.
He lover is the trees he's pleased
And they will never ruin eachothers' day.

- Salem Sykes Morningstar


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Chakros, in the year 215 MA.