"Didn't my letters ever reach her?
Or did she think ignoring was better?
I wrote replying letters while awaiting her reply;
For I always thought I already know her ploy.
But the fact that she never replied
Is somewhere my thoughts died.
Didn't she know the joy of receiving letters?
Oh! She had me writing, all that matters.
She had her share of reckoning joy,
And I was just a key-in-the-back-toy.
Camaraderie asked about my pain
I said I'm fine & that I still am sane.
That my love was awakening, hers was dead as moist willow
They questioned why there's still a letter beside my pillow.
I was quiet, that was the unsent letter of our dying love
She can have it if only there were post-birds, maybe dove.
I garlanded final words into a goodbye poem that didn’t rhyme
She will never get to read it, I cursed while confessing to my crime."
The poet died. Meanwhile the letters were stolen.
And can now be found in museums of Roman.
The untold truth is he never posted any of the letters
He wanted pain, though faux, to write his magnum opus.
He drank n subconsciously thought he has posted them all
The pain can do wonders, so can the letters of fall.