Writing

What is it to you
Too available
Not understandable
Nothing
Knowing that
My chamber
Is always open
For life
Never will it
Be dark
But really
What is it to you
But a tumble weed
That blows by
On a lonely day
But tis as commercialized
As the day of love
Or is of thee aquantanceship
As rare as the
Farest star
Thoughts of rarity
No need for knowing
For that is
Of the life
I love
Full of
Unread books
And unfinshed thoughts
Spoken