Poet

Rivers die...
streams of its remnants
caressing the last of the gurgling sand.
Sad bubbles relinquish themselves to hungry air.

Naked poet at the water's edge,
whispers no more..
But his footprints on the glassy surface,
lie unwashed by the sand.

His are the fossils of the dying waters.
His are their apparitioned tombs.

Stranded ,a relic.
Gathers dust.

(the poet as a relic in modern times , pondering over corroded vestiges of the original world ..)