In Paris bohemian quarter lived a romantic poet

And it was said

Every word he wrote was like a tear falling to the page

Until he had no more tears to shed

And when the words were read

They created thoughts that like a light breeze

Dried the tears and left only the lightest trace.

And it was said that

Every word he wrote was like the morning dew

That settled on the page

And when read, the words provoked thoughts

Like the rays of the morning sun

That dried the page and left no trace

He left his mark on all those he knew

But left no words for us to see

But every word that he wrote was like a tear

Until he had no more tears to shed

©LawRouge