Poetry

Living, 
in the wounds, 
like a gas dragged into 
the black hole. 
 
Bedeviling the light. 
There are no winners in this war. 
Corona will not sit 
on any head. 
 
There was ambivalence 
in the robust thrust. 
The hard x-rays will 
burn the thoughts. 
 
Do not go on chasing the 
grazed genre. The style 
will bring back the questions 
which had no answers.