Poetry

Living my own way 
like flint, 
you will not read 
my cosmology. 
 
We two, keep quiet in― 
the same book― I 
want to read some 
hidden message from you. 
 
A day slips into night. 
What a consumption of will. 
The train stops at the terminus― 
without a traveler. 
 
Stepping out, from the 
grave of body― you will throw 
a reflection, of the nerves, 
in a wreath.