Whispers Of Night
There's no such thing
as stroke of genius
on an empty piece of paper,
a poet named after
but I was there when
I listened; all the words,
the tears, the thoughts
the sparkle of his mind
and his smile's so angelic
those soft lips called my
my 'love', my ' life', my 'death'
love turned him into poet!
eagerly, he chanted
the poem of his heart,
in love, in grief..
he tasted the essence of it!
there's no other certainty
of reacing his destiny..
because, his poetry is here
and I'm already gone!
stop telling me that I'm the one
I'm dead and you're..human!
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Comments about this poem (Human! by Whispers Of Night )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
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