Poetry

Uncannily sanguine,
wounded by biting gnats―
you return home.
 
You would call the
family for a final―
drink and
drown the moon.
 
You have come very
far from the inviting
shores in deep sea―
 
to be sucked into the
whirlpool of silence―
to end the sounds.
 
You will not put the
bread upside down. Who
will provide the priceless again?
 
A small saga of unheard renegade?