Poetry

Training your voice, you
had come around to open―
the door of the miasma.
 
The departure stretched
very long. Strange blinkers
were holding the light.
 
A cunning God would
not let you die―
in the trenches of syllables.
 
The moon would withdraw
from the humming night―
for a face-lifting.
 
One blind sun, hurts
the path, where I had
laid the marigolds.