Poetry

You were eating
out from our hands.
O God, we are hungry.

Sometimes I collapse
in on myself, to achieve
the quietus. Even moonlight
won't escape from me.

I collect the ashes
falling from your
golden locks. Was it the death's
pride?

The moon fattens
to receive the lost crown
of sleeping queen.

The shadow falls
at your feet. You become
taller than me.