Poetry

I am scared.
You are becoming human,
looking back at the
colored leaves falling in autumn.

Was your pain
ripened? And you bled
poems? Ah you were the―
first wooly animal!

Surreal. Dancing
with beautiful words to
entice the lies. To woo
the narcisstic mode.

Thought of dying
shimmers like a fish in silvery
water. I won't throw
the net in your eyes.

River will not drink
its water.