Poetry

The brown dust―
floats, while reading
poetry.

It was my first―
love with the dancing words
in the jungle of departures.

The genocide of―
reliefs. I erect a shrine
for the slaughter of unknown.

Innocently, I utter―
your name in dark, that
lights up the aubade.

Strange things happen.
I stand where the roads don't cross
parting the emptiness.

The deadpan. Another city falls.