A Poet's Penchant

Poets still die in the art of war, Poets still die in the art of love, Questioning we die, Dying, we live.... The charm is as same as the beauty, Much like we distant every single day... I never could say, What awaits tomorrow is timid, Today is lost in sheer thought of livid... Don't know what awaits, Whispers the same cold winds, Yes, they make me shiver...