Poetry

You seldom touch
the flames of eyes, when
I believed it was true.
Your hand burns.

Ceremonial. I
pluck the roses in
delirium. O pain-giver
there was beautiful blood.

Cloud, cloud tears
slip for thousand of years
to reach the dry lips of iris.
Why did I go blind?

After the snake bite
you turn blue, a goddess
of forgotten sins, I
will never blame you.