Poets a new sun, and fading moonlight

There's something incredibly elegant about the way poets string emotions into delicate strands of hope, tethered to the branches that spell out life purpose, even if just for the moment. How to test if life seeps from these leafy arms, down sturdy trunks and into far-reaching roots that will sip as much love as they need from Mother Earth, to keep this magic going? Or will they just pop pills via the vending machine and be done when a new Sun rises and the moonlight has faded to a memory?