By Shifa Rahman
The poet was in his office
That night again,
With his redolent wine
To write some lines
"I believe in life again."
Known for the veracity in his work,
He always wrote a masterpiece.
But the quill with ink in hand this time
Didn't know how to make it a beautiful cease.
He thought he was in solitude
With his despair,
But there was always a presence of an incredulous stare.
His heart made him leave without saying a word,
Made the ghost inspired
To write over his work.
An appalling vintage death
Was waiting for the moment to write
To pour the feeling
Of not being visible to naked eyes.
I remember when I was alive;
Thoughts and human memories are still not deprived.
I see your loose heart every night,
Same as mine.
I reckon that's the part where we unite.
Desolated here I feel every day,
Distinguished from the time I used to play.
Vestige of my life
Is my soul right here.
You have it too
But with all those fears.
Diminutive I feel
When I relive my past.
The existence you have is a gift till you last.
I give you the cease
You were looking for, my friend.
What you have right now is precious
Don't look for the end.