Poetry

In tattered clothes.
I would see my returned privation.
I will make the holes bigger,
so that light seeps in,
on my blackened chest.
 
The lovers will not meet
today, out, in open;
on moonward path.
 
The charred remains―
of the rope are visible.
The soaked blanket, to sleep in,
has become infernal.
 
What are you drinking now?
No other passage,
no exit, even the kiss of death?