With my body locked within my empty house,
I sent my imagination out into the empty street,
Hoping to hear the voice of truth
From life telling the tales of her vanity.

When life speaks, I cloth myself in empathy.
For he uses his days chasing things of importance,
Only to leave it behind when deaths visits
To take him to the place of eternal sleep.

As my imagination grows on the fertile soil of wisdom,
I asked the part of me that crave for life's beautiful vanities.
"In this brittle world , what does a poet own?
And what will I own when death knocks on my door?"

My inks and thoughts is all I boast of.
So, I will bury them all in books,
And hope ears that will be born years after my body is buried,
Will still hear my voice speaking through my poems.

(2020)