Poetry

A visible evil stands 
upright. I did not want to 
die before the death. 
 
My needs were small and few 
but I am at peace, breaking 
water without shaming the earth. 
 
I will now make a moon 
out of the mystery of mass cremation 
of rose buds. 
 
The small recess of the soul 
mends the wall of the flesh to become 
a stable house. 
 
The black crypt, maintains 
a secret. Here lived a wounded 
soldier once upon a time.