Poetry

Talking points at ground zero 
trap the heat. The tyranny 
knows no bounds. 
 
Trauma of awaiting liberation 
was intense. No truth was 
ready to accept the bends. 
 
I feel cheated when, 
the dark gives a sermon about 
the hidden dawn. 
 
The hair burn in unmade 
bed, taking a cue from 
the beast, who will not sleep. 
 
Where do the white stars 
go, when the sun rises? I 
will ask the crying lake.