Poetry

You let go, of me
to wear the hawthorn's
crown, to probe, what I
wouldn't know.

In the ending was
beginning of a fragile
kiss of waning moon, before
the daffodils fall on ground.

I try to forget
the number of steps you
have not taken towards
the moment of enormity.

The laced wounds
prepare to make water
thin for the sleetof
salt water in red eyes.