Poetry

Penultimately,
I pick up my choice
of not accepting my defeat.
 
The grades were falling.
Yet my limbs move
on fine grains of salt.
 
I will write, blue names
with chalk
on the blackboard of―
 
a teacherless life.
The disasters had helped me
to redefine the attachments.
 
The jail-break was
imminent Moon was coming
out from the nemesias.