My story is stuck

on the point where

I pick up myself and leave.

My words are plucked

at the time

when I try to read.

My joy, my life,

and my sorrow

Every feeling

that I borrow

is more and more

incomplete.

My poems prose

is lost in your brows.

Love is a silent murmur

too faint to hear

too loud to deny.

Don’t ask me why ?

It’s the way things are.

But I got no luck

to get me through

and I wonder,

What comes next ?

Or I shall bring on

the words

poetry

prose

to a close

A lake of words

might be just

the most lovely song.

Who knows?

I will for now

carry on.