Poetry

You have nibbled and eaten raw 
scratching by nails 
talking of a pink rose syndrome 
under the corona of soft spikes. 
 
Someone talks to you in your brain 
guiding you to guillitone. 
Life was not worth any meaning, 
when questions were none. 
 
No one to resume, isolate green 
from the grains of empty desires. 
Your hand travels from thorn to thorn 
to reach the unrelenting fires. 
 
Made of eccentric obsessions 
your house is far away. I smell 
the yellow leaves falling, one by one. 
It is still dark, with no moon. 
 
Question will become one day, the answer. 
The answer will never be the answer 
We will remain confused, unclear 
about the question and the answer.