Stick to my hands, cling to my fingers, hide under my elbow.
A trembling poem loses its grip and drops on the sheet.
Alphabets behave funny these days.
Like a mute child with an unbearable stomach-ache.
Baffled phrases bulky with meanings
Heave a sigh for some fresh air.
I am answerable to words, they grow on me
We are poetic parasites, addicted mutually
Hearts glorify my words, in a flattering applause
I put my pen to rest, mourning another poem's loss.