Poezja

Friends and foes 
would have a scuffle 
about, who was going to pluck the lymphoma. 
 
A rainbow deflects, 
from your eyes, making 
me grasp for the breath. 
 
Seeks apology, while 
talking to trees, on boil 
was the language, under the poverty line. 
 
It does not make any sense. 
The rain catcher was on trail 
of a fugitive. 
 
The sun. Always hiding 
behind the veils of massacre. 
I am not going to face the moon.