A Poem of a Different Colour

Words froze on my tongue,

And thoughts cuffed in my mind,

I take a pen and a paper in my hand

To write a poem from the inside.

I write, I write, and I write

Something in lines, and not in words:

A line over a line, a line across a line,

Up and down, down and up all over.

When the ink is over,

The mysterious poem is over.

I put my hand on the paper

To feel its beat, but

There is none. Then

Silence burns my fingers.

I try to be all ears

To hear the beat of life;

But there is none.

Realizing then that in a grave

Poems are of a different colour,

Meaningful only to the living dead.