There's no such thing
as stroke of genius
on an empty piece of paper,
a poet named after
his life!
but I was there when
he cried
I listened; all the words,
the tears, the thoughts
he's..human!
the sparkle of his mind
is blinding,
and his smile's so angelic
charming!
those soft lips called my
name..in vain
my 'love', my ' life', my 'death'
my 'pain'!
love turned him into poet!
eagerly, he chanted
the poem of his heart,
in love, in grief..
he tasted the essence of it!
the solitude-
there's no other certainty
or possibility
of reacing his destiny..
because, his poetry is here
and I'm already gone!
stop telling me that I'm the one
I'm dead and you're..human!
Whispers Of Night
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/human-40/
