Poet

There was one poet
I know you don’t know about the poet
But your cities air knows him, streets know him
Even your shadow knows him, but you don’t
know,
The poet doesn’t regret that you don’t know him
He regret that he has so much to say you,
But he could not tell you,
You have not seen his tormented eyes
Everyday he wrote a letter to you that never reaches,
The mistake he has done is waiting for you
Cherished to see your flower face for once
By standing hours.
You never showed to him but he was there alone
Flying foxes at night was his friend, vultures sitting in trees listened his sorrow, they were his friends and no one.
He just wanted to hold your hands and walk for thousand miles.
Every time he tries to reach you he has faced
Disgraced.
His eyes bleed, his shape of heart ripped
But he never stepped down.
Now the poet is no more
His friend the vulture who listened to him
Has freed his flesh from the body
Now the skin and bones remains.