Poetry

After the moon 
it was an unkempt night. 
 
I wanted to kill the narrative 
and recast the frozen history. 
 
A dirt road leads to a new trajectory now, 
splattered with blood. 
 
A double tongued thought brings 
the ire of screaming horror. 
 
Strapped for knowledge, he believed 
in resurrection of a black hole. 
 
The pain, it hurts terrible. 
Emblematic was the bending of candles.