Life on the street, the hand of the poet writing down his verse, discarded words like snowflakes melting in the sun.
Fate is his story told, the tales he must disperse, talking of the simple things that are never overdone.
Who is this demigod that uses words to rule over creation, his liberated thoughts lining up in a string.
Think not that he takes control through simple manipulation, he's testing the waters for the response they'll bring.
Should a man control the way that words and paper meet, a votive offering rashly given, exposed that it be scoffed.
Should he write a verse of love and life, people on the street, will his words be perceived as true, his passions held aloft?