Poetry

A scavenger fails to thrive
in upward mobility.
The emotion becomes a virtual,
collects all the garbage
and becomes negative.
 
There are only varied questions
of different shades, and
no appropriate answer.
 
A fantasy remonstrates with the diminutive moon.
 
Stone pelting becomes a daily
ritual with the song. There
was no music in the language.
 
Scarves were few. And it
was very cold―
out in the chilled dark.