I was once a poet.
I hang a word in every breath.
I wrote every piece of prose the wind whispered in my ears.
I utterly portrayed the sun’s radiance depicted on my skin.
I used to light it in the air for her, whenever her beauty satisfied my eye.
I had an amazingly distinct way of deciphering the earth’s utterance.
I inhabited a galaxy of praises, a world where poetry runs like a waterfall.
Where it is, too, the sound of the hurling waters and the breeze.
I articulated the vocals of the heart, gave voice to retentivity and fired up yesteryear.
Now I’m hopelessly gazing at a vacuum.
I am perplexed about whether the world has turned dull with nothing exquisite, or words have fled my vocabulary.