Tracing ancestory,
my poem will talk to you one day
under wolf moon.

The skin starts burning.
Singed hands will collect some
salt from god's kitchen.

No new meaning has
come out from book after
desacralization.

Nothing matters now
after decimating dreams.
Will not surrender.

Polyp goes medusa.
Free swimming in my
wet eyes at dawn.

And you standing
alone will stop the worship
of rising black sun.

There once was a man

who searched for a crown

In a pile of bone

He wished to

be the king of

rubble and stone

Nevermind the

stains of

dirt and mud

When you can rule

the lonely

city of blood