I once wrote a poem

I once wrote a poem without metaphors, only words to console a lonely soul lost in melancholic moods in thoughts of those gone to soon without a note or goodbye. Pondering how to probe in prose who's sole purpose would be to compose an ordinary song to expose innocent emotions to show scope and protect, but not to provoke or choke forgotten crimson wounds, so I wove an ode without a raincoat, before moonlight wore a cloak covered in clouds composing a shroud. Alone in an abode of brown meadows, I spoke to the moon in monsoon soaked mellow seasons, but in treason its glow showed no devotion. Soothing sounds of raindrops stroked soft symphonic tones, but brought no hope, so one was prone to prostrate in sorrows only consoling smoke shadows portray through motions of stolen ghosts. Forever wondering how to become poetic. Is there a narrow yellow cobbled road to follow - or should I forget it? Once I wrote a poem with poor metaphors, so you would not notice how unspoken conversations could explode without control shown like cold charcoal gloom and fog vapours pouring showers of torment to trouble and torture strongest thorns of an old stone rose.