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.