Poetry

Symbols are true, because they are there. 
Your solemn ache 
proud of failure 
traces a circle. 
Dark and eternal, in all its purity 
punishment becomes an award for life. 
 
It is not difficult to know 
whether a god exists. 
You commit suicide to become a god. 
 
Inoculating falsehood 
dying daily unto death was not my pitch. 
 
Your mind breaks the moon in dark, 
into hundred bright crumbs. 
Each bit becomes a metaphor 
To shock the garden.