The poet sang about the sky and the sea.
The poet cried silently, sheltered under his only accomplices - the stars.

The poet was the only one who understood the moon - he shined with silver and misty glitter when no one was watching, when no one cared. Because while others were asleep, the lost and the broken were too caught up in their mess to notice his beauty.

The poet caressed the soft grass he sat on, and gentle flowers that grew from it, because they're the only ones who knew how it hurt to be thrown away and forgotten when you no longer spread sweet scent of innocence and have soft petals around your heart.

The poet knew he was the only one who understood them and they understood him, so for each of his words, the flowers grew another petal, for each of his tears the skies cried crystal drops, for each of his smiles, they painted another rainbow and since there was no sound to be heard for his breaking heart, the heavy waves crushed clamorously onto the rocks.

And even if the poet's cries echo no further than the ocean shores, and his words are read only by lilies and daisies, he will shine and he will live with each new day, for his soul was made of gold and timid fire.
Soft and pure gold, one that will shine forever in glory of the rising sun.