Poetry

Half your young age,
violence comes in choppers,
to avenge on the solemn moon―
for a long night.

It sucks, day and
night. The assassination
draws the blood tears, unwashed,
from the sunny plasma.

The crotch was saboteur.
Pure love had become
an echo of hemlock.
Your lips were blowing blue.

It was terrible trauma
of believing in your religion.
Truth will not rise―
from the dead.

The perfect U-turn.
A dead poem turns into
dew on your eyes.
I am singing again.