Poetry

It returns to haunt, 
the dilemma, of disowning 
the old version of truth; 
when I was searching the parallelism 
for the sake of otherness. 
 
The unreturning melancholia, 
brings the surreal intruder, 
I did not want to entertain. 
 
The insane activity of heart 
wants a sin uncommitted. 
 
The flirt eyes like a tulip 
between your fingers, 
unrolling the tender petals. 
 
Night throws the salt on the moon. 
 
There were no tears.