Pretty flowers

Once a poet with words so divine, Now homeless, with no one to call mine. No one to pick pretty flowers for, no love to give, Just struggling to survive, just trying to live. Long gone are the days of laughter and joy, Now it's only loneliness, no one to deploy. No one to share stories, no one to care, Just streets filled with silence, cold and bare. But still, the poet's heart beats strong, With verses that sing a hopeful song. For even in the darkness, a light shines through, Guiding the poet to a love that's true. For though there may be no one to pick pretty flowers for, The poet still finds rest in his core. In every bloom and whisper of the breeze, There lies a love that will never cease. So a homeless poet carries on, Bearing the weight of a life forgone. Hoping that one day, love will find its way, And bring back the joy of another bright day.