Poetry

To become insane,
I think. I miss the ruptured
wounds.

I ask myself,
was it true, you
were painting water body?

Somebody was
laughing after the funeral
of raped truth.

The bells go
without sound. I hold
my trembling hands.

The door knob was
broken. I cannot open the
portal of dreams.

A lone swan treads
softly on the smashed mirror
to reach the lake.