Poetry

I will meet the moon
on the terrace,
when the dust settles on the
lids, smothering
the uncharted barricades.
 
Life had been full of dresses
to play the lead in
conflicts of alliance vows.
 
Like untouched goodbyes,
you hover around the exit―
to seek the blessings of dark.
 
In the glasshouse, you cannot
walk nude. The wounds, the scars
the burnt-out fabrics
will tell the truth.
 
A priest will invoke
the mercy of the vessel.