Poetry

After the 
elective execution, 
you reach at the 
end of nowhere. 
 
A wayward 
cloud stands alone 
under the plump moon. 
 
It is absolutely― 
white, like the 
wings of a swan. 
 
Beneath the earth 
you want to dig out 
the remains of dark hoods. 
 
Gale-force winds 
promise to make you 
snow-blind.