He weaves his words and winds of them on a paper,
the letters are scattered as if waiting to be twitched into
something which can be embraced,
Alas! they are not all the time.
He sings to the morning sun and talks to the stars,
at times he smiles at the breeze and then
peeps quietly into nothingness.His ways are eldritched
but his zeal is like an infant.
The words are his soul,his pain and even his wine.
He immerses his self to them .
The plunge replenishes his life unto him
And his vigour is renewed.
Strange he is but he still longs to be loved.
He loves human and he loathes them too.
But when he weaves his words,he is anew.