Poetry

Let the untold suffering 
settle the incompleteness of truth. 
You have to move out― 
making space. 
 
The empty chair fills in 
at dark. I talk to my father, 
daily about the remains of life 
and falling debris. 
 
A son does not want to 
know the futurity. A dazed poet 
will write the history of ruins 
which was younger than memory. 
 
A resilience still brings me 
face to face with the gods of dead souls.