Poetry

I always walk
a thinking moon. One day
I will ask him how to release
the destiny encased
in amber of your eyes.

One day you should
paint me blue, when the
sun sets on the lake for
a final dip.

My grey skin
melts in your hands to
interpret the viscosity of
trembling heart.

Don't give any
testimony against the unseen
murder of a golden deer
drinking water from
your cupped hands.