Poetry

Something was left behind.

I was collecting all the
dried roses for the prison of
eyes. I ask myself― what was that.

Something was left behind.

A black rose? Near the
smoked candles of poems? A
tiger lily, still had the blood spots?
Why do I forget the precious things?

Something was left behind.

I wait for the butterfly,
to wake, which had breathed
last between the tender
moments. Why do I want?

Something was to be left behind!