Poetry

Trotting along; fighting death - 
with delaying techniques. 
Chemo had failed. 
 
Weeping Ashoka, how do I 
name you differently? 
I may not see you again. 
 
I am hurt, very badly. 
Absolutely rooted, firmly 
in autumn. My leaves were falling. 
 
Pushing back the interface 
between smiles and tears; 
the trespasser goes to moon. 
 
It was traditional, 
garlanding the poet- 
who had killed his muse.