Poetry

When the very soul dies, 
death does not need a label, 
living with death becomes a ritual. 
Craving for the kiss of time, 
under the shadows of moments, 
you are not you in the expanse of false pretentions. 
I will be watching myself. 
 
Questioning the validity of dying without the sun 
night will not forget. 
It pours the suffering, anguish and hurt. 
The duality of black and white, 
drives you to despair. 
Poem was alive, 
when it was not written. 
 
Core of your being, 
trembles on the name of limbs atrophied. 
You were too close to the destiny, 
which was always on the wrong side. 
For the sake of innocence, 
your truth remained crippled, 
your bronze god weeping.