Poetry

White lotus at red feet: 
we will start self-infliction 
explicating 
with regrets. 
 
After a rough night 
the day was weeping. 
From where the bread will 
come, when you were playing 
with a golden spoon. 
 
This morning I again 
dig a hole in heart. 
Was the Mayan calender right? 
Why the sun is playing slow music? 
 
I am coming nearer 
to a locked god.