I can talk to the dead as they talk back to me,
They know how to listen in rapt attention as no one listens to their stories.
I can feel the dead talking,whispering, singing songs of life, sometimes of death songs of longing things unsaid.
I don't need to die to talk to them,they bless me with this special ear,
Which lets me hear their stories from spaces no one can ever veer.
This is a one way street, lonely once the dead allow you to talk you are at their mercy.
No matter how much you try to stop listening .
To stories of dying of agony they will not let you go,as so few,are privileged to hear their living memories.
I fear not death anymore and that is the bliss.
The dead have blessed me with as I know once I am dead
I still will be able to tell my stories to ones who are interested.
One of them may be,just may be a poet,
Who will then write,my unwritten verses, scribbles and poetry.
I may be dead then,but my poetry will continue
To traverse this world of the living dead’s.
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