Poetry

O my baby pain―
this house is on fire.
My body is going to war.

A lonely path, in life
and death― where does it
lead to― in wilderness of home?

The mob only loots.
Lynches and hangs you from
the lone tree of love.

I confess, there was
a chink in my armor, not
light but water seeps through it.

You start fearing the
windows. Not noises, time
was slipping pout, never to come back.