Poetry is a wrist,
                  weeping.

But the tears do not fall,
for the life ebbing to
                nothingness.

Its for the words elegantly woven
of life that caresses this canvass.

Purity of two shades become more
than was non-existent.
               Live and death serenade.

Till both are still, and the words
       stain the wall.
The readers mind, silent, static

These are the poetic words of life...
           For even though later washed
away,
The stain of that lingers, remains