Anti Lucid Prize

What makes the bird sing,

Playfully like an April breeze,

Living freely,

Fluttering about in the Great Blue Sky.

Not standing the Dead of winter,

What happens in love,

Ends in death,

Despair,

Silence.

We are but bees,

In a captive hive,

You are the fire that warms me,

The desire for my shaking heart;

Your beauty and grace,  

So unimaginable yet,

As if it was a radiant glow,