A writers love is like a tree
On a lonely roadside
With no one to feel
Or to sooth away some pain
When the tree waves
The leaves about on calm winds
It says a lot
But it is lonely
And when the stubborn storms
Shove it about, to and fro
It stands but broken inside
With one more hope to spare
But love; love itself is strange
It has made the best tales
Loneliness, has wandered far
Giving only desire to the desirous
The love one seeks
Lays inside of that
Which brings joy upon ones heart
And smiles upon others faces
Oiroegbu Halls
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