Poetry

You were aging by nights. 
Days will not seek 
to defend you. 
 
Drawing the landscape 
of a snowfall, 
you will die in a portrait. 
 
The world meets 
you again like a jawless 
lamprey with sucker mouth. 
 
Beyond the blues 
lies a tower, where 
you will not find the stairs. 
 
In battlefield, stands 
the army of red ants, ready 
to pound upon the moonlight.