Still..

once more i was there

a point where imagination

with all its eloquence

stops - like that writers block

which comes only to go

but the time it stays

hurts, it pains

it spreads like plague

deep into veins

of the city in dark

alleyways of hope

that died wheezing

yearning for you

like air that comes

which touches that pettle

fresh like dew lets

and it stops

like that art

with that painters heart

in the canvas, oil

expressions wordless

my songs meaningless

love is fareless

and you left me

toungless,

only to see

my imagination stop