Poetry

Sky-clad, you are going 
to meet the nemesis, 
digging the street to― 
find the nails. Do not fret. 
Nails had burrowed deep in the 
flesh of unknown. When you have 
nothing to say, what are you 
going to say? 
 
My heart misses a beat. Takes 
a pause to look at the 
spring of songless birds. I watch 
myself ruined amid the legless run. 
Soon they will be coming to wash 
the stones with tears. 
Do you smell the pungent smoke 
rising from the no name tragedy. 
 
Tonight the gas will not burn 
in the kitchen. The beds will 
remain unslept.