Poetry

Raising the walls 
around you, you started 
a ritual of placing a single 
rose on the tomb daily. 
 
Trapped in the blues, 
there was a killer instinct 
to destroy the self. 
 
I become a flame, 
passing through the flesh 
eroding the body's mystique. 
 
The ravage words 
now sleep. A dying 
moon will set the 
night free. 
 
It was an invasion by 
deathless roots at night. 
A slow music starts by puppeteers 
to undo the potter's field.