the dead poet

the poet is sad again,
the lonely poet
wandering the roads once again,
incase he finds some pebbles
to keep him company,
miles after miles he walks,
talking to the unknowns,
who become his knowns ones,
and his known ones move far away,
farther and farther with each milestone.

the poet doesn't write anymore,
for he has no story to tell,
his stories are lost in the graves of his lost ones,
he doesn't cry for them,
only sometimes
a tear or two fall,
for he can't stop them,
but he wishes he could.

the old poet sometimes wishes for a different life,
a different story to be told,
only death can fulfill that wish,
but he knows death is yet to come,
he is still young,
though old in thoughts,
his wrinkled, crippled thoughts betray his age
and he is already dead
only no one notices.

so he wanders aimlessly
in the Road of Life,
without poetry,
without Rumi, without Ghalib,
the wordsmith's hammer doesn't work anymore,
the chisel is blunt
it no more engraves the rock,
and like a nomad he runs
from this door to that door,
in the hope
incase he finds,
yes, incase he finds
his lost words,
the words he never wrote.