Poetry

In the stand-off
between stolen history
and presiding deity
priest was hanged, while a blue cloud
was shedding the yellow moon.

Who was selling god on the road?
A tall coconut tree was my home;
all but your mouth was shut.

Face to face I am ready to leak
the secret of panic attack in open space,
it rips open the unhealed wounds.

The shot holes on the walls
were still bleeding.
I am getting visions of birds, trees and hills.

A pacific coast was punished
for not joining the conflict.
Corpse is being sent on shores.