There is no death

This is not the end but

another beginning.

He has gone back to the place

from where he came.

He found himself out of this world,

more close to

the darkness and the empty sky

then to the people.

A failed lover-

who loved people-

Always prefered roses over yellow, white flowers.

A failed writer-

Who loved poems-

Always prefered poems by others than by himself.

A failed human-

Who loved human beings-

Always prefered grief of other than of himself.

Too much self-appreciation-

Is this another effort of throwing himself high?

Every stone thrown above-

Must fall-

And life is a perpetual falling.

Nobody remembers him

except few grief-stricken.

Not a memory?

But he is liberated

and at much awaited place of his life.

February 23, 2014

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