I captured a part of him in poetry, put it down to hold against time. Praying with a small part of me, that through art he would always be mine.

Words that pour through ink inspired, he must be a muse. The outcome is always fates desire, because they never let me choose.

For fear of memories of him fading, I scribbled them down with pen. Not knowing where this journey is headed, only where it did begin.

I can place a finger to hold a page, and remember him through verse. Every emotion scribbled down, will he be a saviour or a curse?

My lips could never form the words, to capture what it is I feel. He must be meant for Poetry, so my heart would know it's real.