Found myself amid buried cadavers

Yet I can still hear the tunes of molten flows of oxymorons and euphemisms

Addressing me as a dead poet.

Am I a dead poet?

I asked myself; with a deeper voice

thinking it could be my obsession

with metaphors and clingy act on similes

That made me believe I’m still living.

Am I a dead poet?

I seek answers from weeds and heap

Of sands that surround me

Despite enjoying the luxury of silence

And reminiscing about good poetry

I still hope life would give me a chance

To be reborn but I ask myself; Am I a dead poet?