Trees die for the sake of poetry,
some were homes to nightingales –
one should be able to tell
by the poems on their paper.
Flowers are cut with the sharpest knives
to be given away affectionately,
but often the roses
die for nothing.
Words are read, silently tasted for sound,
their meanings unheard,
drifting through air
The nightingale loses its home,
the flower its life and words their voice
to connect one searching heart
to another waiting soul.