Storms in me settled deep down the core of my hungry stomach
when I sat near dry(inked)page of a poet, lying over his grave,
and my quill met his bruises still waiting for someone.
I heard, his words had a dream to see the one for whom he was writing even during bleeding of his thirsty throat.
They want(ed)to dance with proper rhymes gainst the law of separation.
But the voids between his true verses made them to shed grief for his mortality buried under the depth of his adored yet silhouetted emotions.
Was he soiled or he's caged?
wrinkles from my face started disappearing, slow moving wind felt like taking my tragic chest within
when my lips uttered a few of his unfelt hidden metaphors.
Why his heart was left to bleed till the end?