Poetry

The yellow rose
looks like having the same
genome as that of you.

Bending like a stem
of weeping willow.

I will leave
before dawn, when the Venus
prepares to become
Joan of Arc.

The fog sits in
your eyes. A blue veil
covers the contours of
flickering tears.

At the window
the moon waits for
final call of sun to leave
the dominion of light.

A bulge wants to leave
the shadows of broken walls.