I pick up my pen again

No more words, No more verses
No more redundant lines
helping in rhyme.
I had buried my tawdry poems
in the cemetery of time.

I had left on purpose,
the tombstone unetched.
Reminding me
that everything written,
is judged.

But there...
you came again,
to see if my young grave
has that flower
you gave

Yes,
I still have that flower, and
I still have you
deep inside me,
and there is my life, incomplete.

So wanting to meet you
in my words,
in my poems,
in my dreams
I pick up my pen again.