Poetry

You walk through me
opening the portal of―
unending moment.
A right to die lingers in the eyes.

Not a serenade. I am
tying the knot on the tree.
The wait was becoming too long. I
would read again Hamlet without the prince.

Truth was not happy, when
you brought down the body.
The wind was moving like a panther
stealthily before the kill.

How shall we bite our toes―
now? They have left
a bloody trail on the
weeping grass.