Poetry

The red dot was sinking 
to smear the lake. It was 
in soft focus, the waning light. 
 
You want to bury 
the attachment, on the bank. 
Let the waves wash away― 
 
the footprints. The 
clan was in great distress. 
On ventilator, the icon was not dying. 
 
Innocence goes on the block 
I will not get a fair deal 
from the silence of the stone. 
 
The disk tumbles 
into obscurity. Who will 
bring peace to the withering art?