To few words

Many words flow through a poets pen,
yet fail to express a lovers pain,
is it a broken wing of that flightless bird,
that once soared above the sky's mane.
what of love can we describe, thats unsaid,
but of pain, in its stead,
remains brittle like a shatttered glass,
waiting for the sweepers brush.
Is it like that dessert tree,
far from an oases, a part of which it wants to be,
or is it like the chrysanthemum,
the lonely bloom, a winters child, the only seed.
A lovers pain, a silent tear,
both mix like the sacred heart and the spear.
the agony of love lost is so dire,
that not in love but after we hear,
lonliness, like the temple bells,
one glimpse of one that we hold dear.
A poets pen may flow out of ink,
to write about a lovers pain,
the agony of which there is nothing to gain,
so he writes about the summer love,
that is filled with bliss,
and the story of the one who found love.