Poetry

I will come and meet
you in absence of past.
Why to open the window
to moon. I was not right,
not wrong.

Incensed in endless emotions
by default. I still love
my muse desperately, when you
come and go
in between the verses.

The time bars you
in moments, in twists of puzzles.
You don't make a move,
don't fold your wings,
and cast your spell in the shadows.

The lost sun of my path,
sends the fresh, full moon― between
night and day to blend the pain
and ecstasy of rapture, of knowing
the depth of holy lake.