...

Love holds the beauty,

and beauty creates poetry,

he thought,

and as it no longer exists within,

how can he embrace his words.

Moving beyond this world,

creates poetry,

He thought,

and then that night,

he crumbled when wine couldn't help.

On the urge to bring one out,

he detached and torn,

those virgin pages,

and the dried ink of his pen,

scribbled to play with his mind.

He sang it to the world,

and played it on his guitar,

he touched the moving words,

felt love over his scars,

and then he opened his eyes.

. .