Singer Poem by Orwell Heinster

Once met a singer, had quite a voice.
Through her I got a Message, left me no choice.
Keep it a secret, loving secretion.
Remember the words, and how they lost season.
And the mortar of words got very angry.
He passed a sharp sword right through her body.
Weep Weep the voice of treason.
Sleep sleep in silent disposition.
Carve out another and maybe then see.
That all these words lost meaning to me.

Once met a singer, laughing out loud.
It's not her job, but she made me proud.