Poetry

Tell me, is it not pathetic 
that we keep on drifting 
away from our loved-ones as the 
time beats us out. 
 
You were in a marathon. 
Did something go wrong? Why, 
why did you run faster than others 
to become a sole survivor of the massacre? 
 
Life would want to know 
your name, which you had wiped 
out from every page of the book, 
uncorrupting the painful cessation. 
 
What was concealed 
in between the words when you 
went into the soul 
to erase the bodyprint from the bed? 
 
There was nothing left unsaid. 
The death said, I will not come.