Poetry

It was night sin 
of domesticity. Dyed, I am loading 
the white secret of pain 
in the hollow of a mayhem. 
 
 
Till every blunder takes a 
downward flight striping the outsized 
image of a kill. His flames are 
now singeing the eyebrows of angels. 
 
His foes have entered the compound. 
The black was alluringly looped in 
a stream of blood. Death did not 
wait for a ceremony. 
 
Lips forgetting the golden sheep, 
tongue apologies for the wronged earth.