To Make A Poem Bleed ~ the end ~ CDXCVIII / D

A poet could write about flowers and trees
High atop mountains, low to where valleys sleep
How rivers rush tween canyons and meadows
Veins of fresh water, pours down, oceans swallow
Seven wonders that equal the sum of a minute
Taking in that exact moment of being in the present
Giving in only to stop and look at the stars above
To wonder how far, how far, to go for true love
The gift of a heart is the trust given from the start
Pain comes from the blows taken from battles fought
True love can never come from song nor poem
Whether words written in rhythmic verse or prose
To make a poem bleed, the real must be felt
When senses unite to hear, see, taste and smell
The bloom of natures hold kissed by the sun
Falling in love for the first time, since life begun