Poetry

The fear right
below your skin, festers.
I listen to hissing sound of
simmering muse.

Space between the
words suffers. There was
no meaning left by
unspoken ties.

The castle of dreams crumbles, brick
by brick, in the hands
of sleeping volcanoes.

You need a
snake charmer to sway
the beauty of crooked
smile of time.

I still watch the trap.