Natural Death

When the words exit before meeting meaning
When over-stretched threads refuse to weave a pattern
When memory loses itself to unearth its start
it is better to read the eyes of reality that whisper... maybe.... it was a natural death

When the icicles of  moments have melted
When the search in lonesome desert is stranded
When the colors exchanged drapes the past as a damp shroud

It is time to stop looking for the sand that slipped through the hands
It is time to lay the wilting flowers
It is time to accept that it was a natural death.
...and it is time to go home to finish the undone