UNTITLED POEM

The age of skeletons it was in the vine.

Rust had set in

the cold cavities     

of his hollow eyes

Rust had  grown

inside the arteries

of his existence.

He – the miracle poet

who had created gods and myths

and destroyed them with no scruple

or remorse.

That day everyone waited,

that day of  withered  vineyards,

for the flowers of death

To creep from his mouth.

Until

to everyone’s amazement

from the sediment of memories

and from his mouth,

words started sliding.

Look, they said.  He still speaks