Poetry

Not sensual.
Searching you in daffodils,
like four-leaf clover.

This dysfunctional life,
ought to have given me once,
a piece of moon.

Crammed skull, sometime
gives an abrupt
pause. I become a stone.

Walls separated us.
I would not cross the
river of inferno.

Can we laugh
together, before we peel
the oranges to make
our eyes blink?