Poetry

A chilled moon was standing 
between the lovers 
and night was cruising around 
to extract the blood 
of a hangman. 
 
You want to go back and talk 
to old house for selling the dreams 
again. When the body ends, 
the hunger lives in another eye. Let 
me break the cycle and become 
fodder of a thought. 
 
Layer up layer aching in 
half-sleep brings the frozen rain 
falling from icy peaks. You bring 
cherries for moon who wants more. 
Give me a window to have 
a glimpse of still life.