Oskar, The Poet

Each time a dream shatter

Life mock at the poet's existence.
Days, nights, months and years --
Counting never ceased
Like the flow of perennial tears.

Oskar didn't wished to be a poet
He never ever desired to be in print
No prize he aspired to win
No honour he deserved to get
Yet for him hope lies nowhere
Other than his unfinished poems.

He knows at some point of life
Journey wouldn't be infinite long,
But nothing would change for the poet then,
For him life and death both
Forms one side of an old Chinese coin.
All these because
The poet resides within his soul
And the soul has learned to breathe
Among his decomposed poems.

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