Poezja

Under surveillance, the vegetable― 
lives on ventilator. 
All doors were shut― for the 
dark― to remain inside. 
 
The spastic breathing with― 
rising chest, delivers the 
nuances of death. Are you 
sure― it was easier to live? 
 
Asking the destiny to wait― 
at the door. You can write 
your own epitaph― 
on the dust― for posterity. 
 
I am coming home to collect― 
your letters― you were 
writing to me daily― but 
never dared to post.