The senile dust,
which rises between us,
makes me sick.

I cannot stand
the mood swings of
aging moon.

This play of light
and dark in equinox,
confuses the waiting
dawn.

Love stings.
And fog covers, the aura
of falling leaves- green
yellow and red. I survive
the quake.

A tiff burns the fingers.
I will not hold the pen.
The blank paper shivers.
Who will write the
wet poem?