A SONG IN EVERY WORD

It's a new hell 
when you realize 
poetry doesn't sell, 
though its your gift 
late nights, 
with an aching wrist, 

born, two hundred 
years too late, 
so we wait for a 
rebirth, of soil 
and Earth, 

and with an urge, 
we play with words 
in some secluded 
room, and hum 
a tune, in early june, 
life, a thriving cocoon, 

never waiver, 
there is no failure 
in words, we are 
the dreamers among 
a thinning herd, finding 
a song in every word.