sometimes you're emptier
than the Dead Sea,
your words escape your mouth
like air from a busted balloon.
your feelings - lifeless leaves
entrapped in white.
you say, it's not over yet, but
your memory disagrees
for what you have to say.
all structures are shattered,
all you build - breaks,
and suddenly a shadow,
a whiff of the blooming orchard,
a hint of pain, a drop of pleasure
and a poem, shapeless yet, but
dressed in the red of your blood
carefully walks the deserts of your mind,
looks into the back of your eyes,
and you write