Diagnosis said Cancer…a yellow disease of black nights, 

but the bubbling poet thought he has bugs in his lungs. 

Late at nights they started circling inside his body, 

dictators said no cigarettes, no brutal whiskey. 

Addiction has always been a glorifying practice for him…

A slave for madness. 

The night came, he wrote a letter to his sweetheart and gave her; his address beyond the woods, 

a sparkling cigarette for the last time…

A distant smile, a fallen evening and an overdose of wonderings. 

This world full of throttling lives will never know how much death had to fight that night… 

The epic war was never written by any prolific craftsman. 

I guess that’s better, 

some people leave with utter silence after creating havoc with their serene insanity.

…………………………………………………………………….

Photo: Google.