Poem of poems

Twenty years ago,
A poem was born when,
My fingers felt a morning dew
Pregnant with sunlight
Sleeping on a grass bed.
When,
My eyes fucked a sprouting leaf
Painted green with hope
Dreaming a drizzling tomorrow.
When,
My lips sucked in drops
From cracks creeping over the walls
Sodden in the creepy rainy days.
But today morning,
As my pen made love with a paper,
Blood from border walls
Soaked it to death.
Bullets from warfields
Decorated it with holes.
Screams of homeless children
Torn it apart in the air.
And here lies the poem
With no one to read it.
As human pains and cries
Turned out boring news reports,
And adorned with "like, share" buttons,
A poem mourns over a poem.