The Dead Poet

The poet in me died,

when the universe stopped showing me the ordinary things,

that seemed extra ordinary once.

The poet in me died,

when I no longer hear objects speaking from their perspective.

The poet in me died,

when I don't fall in love with the least attractive human being.

The poet in me died,

when I wasn't able to find the different shades of beauty in every women I come across.

The poet in me died,

when I wasn't able to understand the language my fur friend communicates.

The poet in me died,

when I no longer felt silence in the roaring waves,

when I don't feel the comfortable loneliness at the rooftop,

when I no longer feel heavenly,

at the cold breeze in a summer afternoon.

The poet in me died,

when I don't fall in love with love as I did before.

The poet in me died,

when pain did not transform into poetry.

The poet in me died,

when words weren't enough to suffice my heartache.

The poet in me died,

when I don't feel like going to quaint coffee shops,

when I don't like to sip the half - filled red wine.

When empty roads doesn't simulate my imagination.

The poet in me died,

when I stopped searching stories at the people I look.

The poet in me died,

when emptiness occupied my mind.

Maybe, the poet thing is a total hallucination.

The hallucination which showed me the best part of life.

The poetic hangover has left me, to muse about it all over again.

The poet in me died, to reincarnate into a poet again.