He tries to write of envy;
of streets now dry and empty.
Cannot contemplate a time
it did not fit in rhyme.

Comparison is sin to him,
as is the guided word.
Nomadic text is all that's left
of all the noise he heard.

He tries to write of sorrow;
has no more hate to borrow.
And smiles while he simply pens
the same, sad lines again.

His loving, such a simple theft,
I guess I'll give him that.
When nothing here is left to steal
I fear his habitat.

He tried to write of yesterday;
all the ink just ran away.
He tried to pen a verse for home;
the best of ink is in his bones.

Metaphor, forever more, is like
a taste to him.
And laughter just a simile,
sung simply as a hymn.