Poet Tree

If
Poetry were the Death of me
To slumber, I would go
Like two wings without one bird
so silently, to slow

And lie within a vacant ground
where no one's shadow goes
And seek me not, for how you sought
Two prisoners were we
Like a rock split by the roots
Of immortality

And carve no granite
And Mark no Date
For birth was all I knew
And mouth the words of brilliant height
True Love
is how I flew...