Poetry

Truth survived between us.
You were my anthem―
in dying light.

Like a crucible, the
absent moon, fills it with a poem.
Maybe you will find the signs.

That the illusion
transcends the truth, and
becomes blue.

Who will be born―
again in the ambit of
slavery and deliverance?

Ah, the tragedy
of life was, to give
away the honey to insectivores.