Poetry

A rose on your name shines,
like a mural painting.
You had wanted
a deathless dying.

Does it happen to everyone?

Living on water,
still abrasive?

When you walked on the nails,
was it corrosive, like
acid on face?

I am visiting the death room
to start a vigil, like
a hummingbird gone mute.

And the lovebirds will show
no more the open affections.

The moon will heal the poem.
Hearth will keep on throwing
the crackling blaze.