Warrant not the words I say, or any poetic play.

I

Rain falls from moving mountains;

a fountain spouting the truth.

Their drops decay, turning grey -

natures' revealing of their youth.

II

Birds that soar and need not roar,

seek without sleep their freedom;

Fighting with a rage their cage -

rain doth express this demon.

III

The blade of grass cannot last,

desert sands beseech his peace,

and the heat and yearn are fast

to burn his roots, till they decease.

IV

A snowflake breaks, and creates,

of itself such a number more,

that dark winds, of shark fins' fates,

twist and twirl obscuring the floor.

V

Solitary trunks and leafs

debunk his believes; he knows,

alone, its just him and the trees -

there where only one ape grows.

VI

The mole fumbles, feels and falls,

cursing this accursed earth;

and yet with the same breath calls,

Praising her his birth with mirth.

I... The...

I give in, my other wins, just look at this metaphorical mess.

I did my best to wrest from this chest an account of what lies within.

And look at what I have given;

An account driven by truth -

yet aloof from any truth -

and hidden from the living.