How Many Lives He Lives
He talks to inanimate things
maybe he lives in them.
What the golden strings and white beds
he sings in his poesies.
He paints his poetry
from the shades of firmament
and compares the love of two failed lovers
to the horizon,
where both seemed together
but were never meant to be.
He lives as silence
in dark, dreary corners
then dying in tumultuous chaos
and next day,
he narrates the tales he heard
of dust capped childhood toys
and of obscured cries of the housewife
but they went unheard
as everyone was busy contributing
to the chaos
louder than those sweetly harsh rhymes.
He is alive in his own phrases,
his words modulate the readers mind
that sometimes it rains out of dolour,
that smile is just a mask,
that the Sun sets to weep
under the shadow,
as another day it failed to find its love
and that someone became a selenophile
'cause too much light blinded them
and moon became the only hope
in their dark world.
So for every life the writer lived
he must have died too
how many times he died
before dying as a writer
to be a writer?
/you have to die in them, to create a living poetry/