Poetry

Move on. O city, you
were not worth of
living any more,
sleeping on your tusks.
 
I will not assume
any other new name―
when the hurricane
finally arrives.
 
It will not go. You
can keep scratching
for whole life.
Your psoriatic scalp.
 
The attempt to
commit suicide was
worthless. Nobody
will write a note.
 
I will not invite
the white moon to―
break the fast,
after the bloodbath.