Poetry

Coming near the incarnation of an 
unknown, sunflower seeds were cracking. 
 
Trickling down the cleavage of a tormentor 
reaching near the edge of poetry. 
 
I ask you to clamp my name, the 
gash on the book was bleeding. 
 
Was it discretion of night to decorate 
a battered and abused body of a doll? 
 
Naked you cry on the shoulder of the moon. 
This was my prophecy, this is my fate.