Poezja

Give me a lone word. 
I will write a poem. 
 
You enter the final hour 
of diagnosis. The kill 
was imminent. 
 
Back to back two trysts collide 
generating a fire. 
 
Who was peeling the moon? 
 
The stab sets in. In 
abeyance of the gift. I 
will give you a scar. 
 
Daisies will remain awake 
at night, for the vigil 
of a slain pilgrim.