They said,
No one knew why all his verses were sad
and written under the Moon's silvery stares,
in the darkest hours of the night
when bats and owls
glide about hooting and awakening ghosts.

They said,
No one knew why he squats
in a corner of the room
breathing in the fumes of candlelight
like sweet smelling savour
Lost in a distant thought,
Eyes bloodshot,
A cup of coffee black and bitter
waiting to crawl down his empty stomach
where words are rung out
through the anus of inquisition.

Somewhere faraway,
a book of his verses,
tucked away under the pillow of lonely and sad girl,
Whispered answers into the ears of cold walls
Of battles he fought,
Of her never ending cold wars
with depression.

There, his book of books lie
assimilated into her teary eyes:
It's rough edges
It's damp pages
It's littered letters laid out on lean lines
It said, 
"He came
He saw
He concurred"

They said,
No one knew why his verses were always sad,
but she knew better
They are her lifeline.