Poetry

What you will not
say, after becoming cosy
with the moon in sleep walk?

Holding my hand,
you wanted to squeeze
time for the sake of fallen
star in the black sea
of ifs and buts.

The tears were
great solvent, when you
inhaled the fumes of
karma, to go high.

The seizure will
come again, wrapped in
golden shroud, against the
hope of suicide.

Meditation brings
sweet music.