Poetry

A fallout from your
waning smile, parades
a naked wound.

A slice from a wake―
remembers me.
I was sitting in lotus position
ready to go for abdication.

Your message was elegantly
subtle. Not to lose conscience,
remaining the first lover of death.

Exiled from guillotine,
you don't see holiness in
the talons of eagle coming down.

The tree and a river
were old friends. The scarves
tied to the old branches, will
tell the collaborated suicides.

No sane hands will break
the knees of moon.