Poetry

Your poetry was
a hyphenated struggle
to become a blood stained city,
where I live to find
a Judas kiss.

No remorse, no panacea.
I don't feel the spark.
No belief tarnished in the
autistic approach of life.

You think the increasing
distance will heal the
hurts of cuddling under the moon
in flames?

What the numbers have
given to us. Hands have the
same fingers and thumbprints
were fake.

No mass wailing.
The wolves can laugh too.