Migrating poets. A tremor and a wish, when will it lead me to my death? With a burden on shoulder and dream in hand, it all seems hard to forget. Some sparkling eyes seem to welcome me from beyond the moon, And then as I draw closer, they bleed but tears, caused by unforgivable doom. So much care is left unused and none heed to those but who belong, And join forces against the strange lonely travelers, who’ve been misguided and wronged. They migrate no more for survival and shelter, but for a hug or a bare pat, To reassure them that their journey will bring good, whatever they’re at. And now this mob of starving poets, try new ways by greed and curse, For no more do they care about satin silk, the new born and noble verse. We raged and threw ourselves at them, but they seemed to use violence, Something that the vulnerable left, were afraid of, swore never to use on any presence. As we travel, as a one whole pure flock of art, leaving behind the worst to be, And as I walk, I wonder will we herd, have worse enduring days to see? Will some of us waver and kill from ourselves, and go astray? If ever comes such a time, I say by the lonely sand dunes, it’ll be mine last day. since all of you are poets, you should tell me what you think...