Killed What I Saved Poem by Rohan Sen

Can a man write from the highs of happiness?
I tried and I have failed.
Words that became my friends,
were in fact fiends who in dark weather,
spread out on paper making sense together

I took the bold step,
and dug out letters and mails that she,
had written me,
bringing myself to a joy,
that I have sensed,
tasted and felt invigorated,
and a moments' illusion created

With a heavy heart as hammer,
I then broke that dream,
and brought myself falling to earth,
and a rebirth, of creativity,
and of vision uncluttered,
and rhythm unshuttered

It is story sad and retold,
Of my Saviour, my written word,
does not have the same command,
for it does demand,
parallel woes from which it saved me,
and now those woes..
Have once again enslaved me.

As tears dropp onto the paper,
Old friends, I sought out,
Yet, I know I write with pleasure,
enjoying my double headed treasure.