Poetry

This was the art of killing.
From the dizzying
heights you throw the
vesicants.

Now you need the gliomas
to finish the job.

At wrong time, I was
raising the bizarre questions.
Why the wealth brings-
the change of life?

A wandering pain
caves in, where the moon
looks sick in its paleness.

The massive lies, deep
in dirty tricks after the traffic
of voices.In blank space
I plant my poem.