Poetry

Locating the perceived
footprints of moon―
in my dark house.

My homegrown precision
brings the weird
calligraphy alive.

Now the execution
begins in rose beds. Out from
nowhere come the missing thumbs.

You kill in broad daylight
all the dreams of
feathery morning. I―

start climbing the
violence to reach the eye
of hate and enmity.

A god a day becomes
my natural love. Would we be
meeting daily?