When you stay away
a short while, I
start searching myself.

The torn pages of―
my book flutter through the
dirt track.

You leave footprints
of sacrilege, unmasking
the absolute white
of the lonely death of moon.
The night will become
sleep-deprived. I will wake up
the cherries to celebrate
the bloodbath.

How come, there was
no mercy for the killer? It
was god's message?

The holy book has become
a cleaver in the hands of faithfull.

I want to unread all my wisdom.