Fate had met me with hands drenched in blood.
I had met you with sirens wailing in your busy head,
but no, I would not let you diminish me.
I have turned you into my poetry, left and right
I am whisking away thoughts of you on pages and laptop screens,
all of which are dying.
I met you and I had already deemed myself worthy, of saving you.
I wrote you like my poetry,
saving compilations of you in different files but I know now,
it wasn't the way.
I met you and found out that saving you, like saving the Sun
from dying out one day, was not meant for my hands.
I met you, when you uttered to me "poetry is dead"

I know you.
I had known you for my poetry.
I have known you since I had the first
taste of what it feels like,
to be awake.

Now I know, poetry is dead.
You are not my poetry anymore,
for you are the
Poet.

Dead and dying the second death
My eyes grow dim, faint of breath
Still I run
Thoughts exhausted, logic fails
An endless flight I exhale
Still I run
Shards of rock, broken glass, barefoot past
Callous mind, soaking sweat blind
Still I run
Round and round, winding down
Nowhere bound, lost and never found
And still I run
Dreams of old come and go
Rain and snow my greatest foe
Still I run
Body ailing, muscles failing
Obstacles I swerve, constant left-hand curves
But still I run until I'm done
In the early morning hours
And then I go in ... and take a shower