A Poem

A poem, like death-was
unpredictable. You wait for it,
it does not come.

Then you drag a corpse
on stones to find its home
which never materializes.

You give me a hurt. I
become mute. Very shy
to accept the verbatim.

How different we are
in alikeness. I touch you in twilight
of life to become one.

And from daily life
I gather the pain, to print
the version of tomorrow.