Poetry

Sitting before the white
screen, thinking―
what to write today.
Suddenly you will appear to
take a sweet revenge.

Proding the sensitivity,
you will not utter a single word.
I will start burning my―
paper boats on the banks of brows.
River dried, no water was
flowing from the dams of eyes.

Only the moon was watching me.
Tomorrow you will find a―
washed out body in dew of a
poem, half buried in red sands.

It still becomes relevant.
You pick up the remains of a saga
make a shrine of the god anonymous.