Last

I lost my poem,
lost long back.

I wish I never find it,
things of blue-black origin
search for it,
I lost my poem.

- - -

It is just not coming,
not even when I wriggle my insides,
not even when I rack my senses.
It's gone.

Lines are cliched,
sand is white.
Love is not over,
lines are.

- - -

This probably ends here.
Spaces and corners,
are filled with,
fluids of emptiness.

Emptiness is filled with,
all I never knew,
is what I do not.

- - -

Farewell.