When my poem died,
I couldn't figure out the rainbow during the rainy season,
I couldn't comprehend the magnificence of the sunrise,
I couldn't imagine the exuberance of the moon,
I couldn't appreciate the beauty of ordinary life,

When my poem died,
the medium to express the human moralities
came to a full halt,
felt like a nonliving,
stopped connecting to the inner self,
started seeing myself as a shattered,
observing the elegance in smaller aspects of life
became a distant reality.
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