the phases of moon devoir every night
I get more far away,
these days repeating themselves,
a miser might know better,
collective thieves,
and the charmers of the night,
just want to be better than yesterday,
yet the undeservings won,
but till when, until then
so many questions have been asked,
so many have got unanswered,
can this be called crescent

Red were the roses, the ones I left on your casket,
Orange were the leaves, the ones in your tree,
Yellow were the bruises, the ones that covered you head-to-toe,
Green were the stains, the ones left on the hems of your jeans,
Blue were your lips, the day you were found in your noose,
Indigo was the night sky, that night that you died,
Violet was that bruise, the one you wore around your neck