Poetry

Adoration short of
consonants, was a sin
of little gods.

My silent prayers
beseeched you again, like
humming raindrops.

Kiss my bodiless
sleep in sad poems, when
the scars of words start
moaning.

Not to wake pain,
I held your hand for
eternity to write my epic.

I fumble, I forget.
The days I don't fall
in love with thorns.