By Stuti Pancholi
Confused in the words of literary, yet thoughtless I laid.
Rusted pages moved, shouting for their attention I no longer paid.
Oh but how do I tell them I, a poet, am out of rhymes.
When silence speaks louder than my scribbled lines and Ink runs dry like unpaid crimes.
I craved love so long with a starving heart, to finally realise how fierce it was to consume.
I stopped mid sentence, story unfinished, pen laid down , and no intention for it to resume.
My muse departed in quiet hush while I reached for his fragile clutch.
The paper crumbled itself to death, pen bled dry of its ink while my writing lost it's touch
I remained a fallen poet,
with untitled poems and haunting rhymes.
My grave today,
lies beneath the stars of forgotten climes