Poetry is dead
when you are not here
to write it in my heart
when your voice is too far away
to read it.

Poetry is dead
when your allure is feeding
strangers' souls on the streets
while I am here alone,
my soul starving.

Poetry is dead in all my being
I feel its ghost leaving my brains
I feel the emptiness inside
and I fear the days
when it will come haunt me
and I won't find a way
to write it.

Sleeping at night it's impossible
cause I hear a question screaming in my chest

When poetry is dead
is there anything out there
left
*alive?

somehow the world looks down on me.
standing central inside a garrison
of skyscraper's shadows
a concrete world s
liding down it's own walls-
until-
you are here- i am here
or so i'm told.

sometime ago i was here with you.
we bought a postcard and i dated it for posterity
amongst
buildings that climbed, clock faces that chimed
breathy airy floors split into windows outside-
doorways replete with someone to greet
own world in it's centre turned pinkish by heat
as the rest unfurled around us
and all we could do is look up.
i am here, i am here
looking up.

somehow this whole world looks down on me.
poor lonely soul wondering restless and old
i am here, i am here
so i'm told.

I hope you'll write me letters
from the land
where poetry always dances in front of your eyes
and music never dies.

You left without any notice
no word goodbye
you flew in a second
when I thought you were feeling alive.

You left me with the memories
of some drunk nights
when we were stupid and young
and didn't know
that life is just a dream
of the everlasting death.

Now I am sitting next to your forever bed
feeling the cold ground
and dreaming
about one more day
some last words
a kiss on the forehead
your bright eyes
shining upon mine.

and I wish
you could hear me as I whisper amongst tears  

"I hope you'll write me letters..."

reading my old poetry is like sampling
blood's flavour on the tongue
the uncomfortable metallic taste
of something in the wrong place
at the wrong time