Poetry

No, I don't think,
when I write. My poem
finds its own words.

The thought
moves stealthily. You put
your hand on my hand.

Your eyes now
search the lost kingdom
of trembling nostalgia.

Will I remain
human? Living amidst
the burials? Do the dead
laugh?

Was there a casualty
at beach? You will not swim
nor drown, for becoming
a nightingale.

My eminent revere
was to live, waiting for
you!