He could not write a poem anymore.
To write one,
One that he could call his own,
His sadness was not enough.
It did not reach the depth of an ocean.
He had failed
like a morning sky fails to look gloom
or a mountain fails to be shy.
He, who had written a book once
Burned its pages on a winter night -
One page, One poem, One part of him at a time.
Finding happiness
A poet died at night;
Content, Loved but dead.
With a note that had
blank lines
and lines
And more empty hollow lines.
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