Poetry

The depression, 
in purple moon, 
scattering black magic. 
 
The eatery, I ask, why were 
you hungry? 
The singsong tea pot smiles. 
 
The theme of mist 
valley, incites the palazzo; 
and the riots begin. 
 
A dark silhouette, looms─ 
against the falling star, 
I start picking up the debris. 
 
On the fringe of 
economic boom, I put my 
hands in the wronged shirt.