"for poets doesn't live if they don't bleed ink on paper."
This is an anthology. All the poems are constructed in a free verse. It does not use consistent meter patterns, rhyme, or any musical pattern. It thus tends to follow the rhythm of natural...
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Long gone, tattooed trees left behind, The poets are already dead. Travelled across the horizon, Questioning the world alone.
From time to time, giving birth to a new man. For once the poets were so majestic, Powerful enough to create A world of full aesthetic.
The poets are already dead. They were lost in the vast of thoughts, Drowned in the rivers of words Choked with the insanity of rhymes, Enslaved by the oppressive prose
The journey is not yet finished, But the poets are already imprisoned. Guarded with the dragons of doubts, Caged deep inside the dark dungeons.
There's no one to help, The pirates weren't free, The knights were far away, Their souls can no longer plea,
What's the worth of playing words? The poets are already dead, They were killed, buried and burned, Forgotten by the creator himself.
