Poetry

Eyes will speak, not the road.
I am going very far.
Ability to suffer was me.

Landmarks had spinned,
the art abducted.
Was it unlucky for defying life?

Who wore the guilt,
for choosing pomegranates,
for the blasts?

Now I am struck on midway,
annihilating the adequacy,
the thrust for good and bad.

I survive the stink.
Blood spilling on quivering lips,
that God was nowhere in sight.