Poetry

Fear of a mound,
tumbling down
on the half-buried, half dead
archives of desires, comes
like a stampede of hoops on my chest.
I lie alone in a desert of insanity.

From the sea of agony
one dropp of salted tear,
the title of a wasted life, brings
the blood stained truth.
I want to wash my eyes again.

To watch the autumn leaves falling
on impeccable stones
for forgiveness.
We were not the fruits.

A song of blind water
enters the earth
to kiss the roots,
foo giving liberation from
sun leaked night.