The poet is on my mind
not death
which puts shrouds
on poets,
they who read poetry
are haunted by love
and death
those who write
have a larger death
looming in the brain
ticking away,
like the merciless clock
Bedraggled words take
away winter time’s
shrapnel or sadness
of lost world.
Love turns into life
of words
Memory clashes in present
A poet lives in deadest moments.

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