A Poet and a Poem

Those enigmatic clouds of Charles Baudelaire were floating in the sky An unhappy man, he, was standing under the sky, He did not see the clouds, he did not know the color of the sky Nothing charmed him, not at all ... Life is useless, failed He's out ... He needs some sleeping pills That's the quick remedy for fatigue, Isn’t it? Those enigmatic clouds of Charles Baudelaire were floating in the sky An unhappy man, he, was standing under the sky, He did not see the clouds, he did not know the color of the sky Nothing motivated him ... he had a terrible headache He needed immediate sleep Sleep...an impeccable silence Of a dreamless, dark death. Poet: Why now? Why is it time today, when everything is over? My life is nothing but burned out ashes only, why now is the time for you to talk about this? Poetry: But, It is you who made me! I am nothing but a mixture Of watercolors of your imagination! Poet: You are the crop of my misconceptions, The agonizing cry of not merging my desire! Will you release me? I want to forget everything, Please do not call me anymore! Poetry: If you turn away, my death will be inevitable. So, what do you want? Poet: I don't know. I just feel that I am decaying endlessly, continuously! He who is burdened with the burden of decaying life, How will he create? Poetry: But you are the one who loves, poet! Forget all fears of hardships, and sorrows. You do love poetry! You create your poetry beyond all the pains of a crazy life! Is it not so? Poet: I don't know that! I'm terribly tired and exhausted. I want to sleep now! The world submerges into darkness. Only hope survives, the hope of a new dawn, In the life of a poet and a poem.