Poetry

A soft, but me,
black moon
coming in bazaar.
Will you sell me the dreams?
 
Talking to grave silence
before the rains.
I will not plant
marijuana in your eyes.
 
O, ignorant prince,
my mother had left a legacy.
One should not sleep alone
to become poor.
 
I expect no applaud,
no cheers. I am a passer-bye
I have not killed
myself.