Poetry

Brown eyes: 
little things― 
I ask from you. 
 
This is the holy land, 
you can walk, without 
offering anything. 
 
I will not surrender 
an alter ego 
for a price. 
 
The walls scoop 
the shadows 
for future skin. 
 
A small pilgrimage 
for the 
dying god. 
 
It hurts when 
my lips will not touch 
the flame.