Life is not a poem

When someone or something dies, it dies

It turns into ashes but not a poem


Someone whispered in my ear

"Say her name, it's your last chance."

I couldn't utter a word

For we have never begun

I wonder how this could be our last


She perished in furious flames

On the first day we met

Recent Posts

See All

Earth, the place I was born Round as oranges Horizon sharp as a grass blade I sit in front of a rectangular window Starring at the flurry of sunlight pouring Over white tiles of squares My cat comes a

I'm writing amid the chirping of birds that flutter in the moist air of March. As I sit on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed sweater, I feel like a troubled monk. My senses are all int