Dying inside, every
day, inch by inch, to save
the silent lips.

Only the moon will see
the weird verbalism of
a narrative.

We are the gypsies,
restless, homeless- traveling
in the shadows of stars.

The act was
suicidal. You were always
talking to wind that
would never listen.

Trick of game
was frivolous. You would
sleep in moonlight alone.

The gossips morphed.
You were an angel without
wings, wandering on hills
crying.

The yellow rose
looks like having the same
genome as that of you.

Bending like a stem
of weeping willow.

I will leave
before dawn, when the Venus
prepares to become
Joan of Arc.

The fog sits in
your eyes. A blue veil
covers the contours of
flickering tears.

At the window
the moon waits for
final call of sun to leave
the dominion of light.

A bulge wants to leave
the shadows of broken walls.

the dark is a hardfind ember murmur
trapped and wrapped in cages with
pages of longing and wronging brought
to silence, to nothing by the deep, in
which we can see so far, and yet, no
thing we see is reachable.

He hurriedly glanced at his wristwatch again,
The shadow of the cross from the steeple
Landing in the middle of the watch.
A sigh echoed through the church courtyard,
And a few rats scurried out of their hide-aways.
They should be here by now.
The moon hung in the sky,
Trying and failing to shed light on what was below.
The harsh noise of a truck on gravel reached his ears,
And he breathed a sigh of relief.
The newcomer parked the truck and lumbered out,
Holding several filthy beer bottles in his large, grimy hands.
“Here you go.”
His voice was gruff, calloused even, as if it was being
Grated like cheese.
Money from the priest’s hands went into the driver’s hands,
And when the priest looked into his eyes,
They spoke legends of ******.
The truck drove away, and
Pretty soon the courtyard was silent again,
Except for the hoot of an owl,
The contented sigh of the priest, and the
Pop of a beer bottle being opened.

The dangling moon
behind the ornate gate
waits for beheading.

*

Indeed I had
called you in dark to change
the name of slaughter.

*

Blood tastes salty,
when words were sweet, slicing
the white lilies.

We will talk about
life and death, standing on
the track in dark.

*

Do not reach anywhere
untouching spots on hands
where sparks kindle.

*

Do you want to wash
out your sins, kissing the
black rocks of moon?