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Poem

As the alchemy of flames converted spiral-bounds into ashen loam
No longer sheltering me o' genius words, it took twenty years to find another poem
It gave me peace at the time to well his wings, at 2 years old; it was me you should have took home
Of all minstrels throughout the ages, crafting limericks, I could not read for two decades a single solitary tome
So I prayed, give me strength again:
to pen these things,
to want for rhymes,
to wield this unending woe,
to be happy again in my life's syndrome.
There is much more to losing feelings; the ones required for survival
The person in life who found me uncomplicated answered a call no one else will ever rival
Her unrequited love gave life; resulting in this dead poet's revival

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