Poetry

You tell me in no
ambiguity to hold on the solitude.
Life was overrating the return
of a prodigal saint.

In wet distance
would you plant the seeds
of spiritual lockup?

Was it not two timing?
Riding on the waves
and starting roots music?

Shot in the back
of head, you wanted to die quickly
being sincere towards life.

Self-abandonment,
it were you, which was, for
what it was not.

I am counting the tongues
of flames, licking
the acid burned virtues.