Poet's Fall

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.