Fear of a mound,
tumbling down
on the half-buried, half dead
archives of desires, comes
like a stampede of hoops on my chest.
I lie alone in a desert of insanity.
From the sea of agony
one dropp of salted tear,
the title of a wasted life, brings
the blood stained truth.
I want to wash my eyes again.
To watch the autumn leaves falling
on impeccable stones
for forgiveness.
We were not the fruits.
A song of blind water
enters the earth
to kiss the roots,
foo giving liberation from
sun leaked night.
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
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