Poetry

Exfoliated, I come to you, 
to scratch the blighted 
palace of the body, where 
a god lived once. 
 
Dervish, when did you stop 
whirling? The tomb is gone, 
the shroud tattered. I am 
collecting the withered roses. 
 
It rips open, the black fruit 
showing the bleeding stone. 
How did I believe, the tiniest 
particle will create the universe. 
 
The tree was felled scattering 
the seeds. An unsure hand, 
pulls on the leash and sets 
the entrapped animal free.