My love for stoic poems flowing through the veins,
banging against the cardiovascular walls,
was a tale buried in the soil for long.

The soil that saw the raging war of electrical impulses and lightening for years became barren and infertile.
The war of lovely poems wasn't lovely at all
It was like a whirlwind; a hurricane that brought down burning crimson skies.

The battle of words becomes worse,
and the tragic lexicographers of thy heart couldn't...