The inspiration died
The words fumbled
And poetry died.

The emotions eloped
The rhythm sighed
And poetry died.

The spirit fizzled
The content fled
And poetry died.

Poetry died this very day
For want of it all
It is dead.

But rise it will
In a new avatar
In a different garb
And a different hue.

Dead it is
The poetry you see
Frozen in its current form.
But as with all other things
It will thaw one day.
The day of its reawakening.

Broken

Once in a while you feel so empty within that even emptiness cannot capture the emotion. Nothing matters anymore, it is just a gaping void and you deliberately want to be sucked in. You carry on with life as if everything is normal but there is a constant ache. But even that ache has a beauty as it lulls you to face the reality. The ache becomes a part of you, a reminder for the times to come. The spirit once broken cannot heal, the crack remains like a scar. And you bottle up all that is left with an emphatic never again. Never to be broken again.