if this is the last poem

if this is the last poem i will write
i shall write it for me
i shall write a poem
i will only understand
i shall hum its words
and let it flee

these words
will cling to almost anything

to the walls and ceilings
to the towering buildings
to the bed sheets
to the cushioned seats
to the undelivered mails
to the books telling tales
to the piles of sighs
to the genuine lies
to the buds of leaves
to the less who gives
to the unfinished tasks
to the beings behind masks
to the flickering lamplight
to the rush of day and night
to the shoulders of people waiting
to the hair strands of the yearning
to the apparitions we never saw
to the absurd unwritten law
to the hearts made of stone
to the eyes where fears have grown

these words shall settle
on anything they land
these words are mine
my soul and crafting hand
from those i shall weave
my skin blending ruby skies
from those i shall see
worlds upon vignettes of lives

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