Poor men talk to God.
Rich men talk of wealth and fame.
Poets talk to ghosts.

Sometimes I like
to dress up my tears in black
place them on the runway
and wait to be cheered for...

Maybe I'm a fashion designer by heart...

I let you trace out my heart
in dotted lines
When I asked why you didn't
colour it?...
You said it was in black & white

And now that you're gone,
my tears are doing their best ,
going through the dots ,
resurrecting the picture

my blood is flowing through,
providing the colour

Perhaps you made me an artist
Cause
Whenever I'm asked about the rough texture,the cracks,the fadings....
My answer is always....MOSAIC...

When you told me
It would last forever
I should have known;
forever is a number

Sometimes I wonder
if noise had a colour
then what shade
would silence be