Dying poet

The tale of a petulant failure
Is dying poet’s way of expression
He wants to punish the entire existence
His only thought in extinction

His heart may have imagined the heaven
With the only existing particle
But now he could not even sense
A single poetic recital

He is asking for the arrival
Of flower, of fountain, of rain
Still he gets soaked in his own
Sweat, blood and pain

He may, or he may not, is the only question
He ponders, though the answer is known
Never again could he get inspired
By his thoughts, his love, his moans