The Falling Maples- Living Unconditionally- Poetry by S.S

They have their own seasons, they call you theirs, for a reason, Sometimes they are yours, At other times, the bond becomes frozen, They mingle, they laugh, it's a rare art, lips utter something, while there's venom in the heart, They think they're forever, Least do they realise, they have already scattered.... (c) S.S

I wonder if it is the muse, that she must submerse in, Or the words that are born, must she bathe in? The essence of her phrases, rests in the rising morrows, they fall with the winter dew drops, and in the tears of her sorrows, She wakes up every morning, to the scent of his fragrant breaths, He who stirs the poetess in her, and is all her verses' meth, She adores his very being, which instills poetry in her existence, Upholding her from the material subsistence to a spiritual continuance........ (c) S.S