Poetry

The cult
catches you
like a black hole.

You cannot scale the walls -
slide back
in a crucible.

Like fried insects
crisp and dry.
Witch-hunt starts.

Sky was blue
in eyes,
winds will divide the space.

Do you need a mediator
to read between the lines?
To cross the fence?

Who sucked me dry?
Who leeched me white?
Death holds me green!