Poetry

Under your baton,
The targets are being
identified. Moon will
find out the hiding
of muse.
 
A purple rhythm
will not be stymied
in bud. Hold the
ground. Sun was setting
very soon.
 
I have not heard the
boots of departure
as yet. The music
will go on till the
last breath.
 
A very positive black.
With closed eyes, you
sit in meditation―
until the flames arrive.