Let me put back the rhythm
to the song of broken limbs.
To arrest the speed of sun-set,
for a meaningful dialogue
with the verse of moon.
The poison of floodlit city grazes my house.
The innocence of the dark suffers.
The white stillness of empty hands lifts a failure
my heart lives with a death intimately.
Where the birds have gone?
I chase the wings.
The otherness of love,
the vulnerability of darkness stays with me.
The thirst of ocean is very large.
Mechanical imitation of aloneness for a ripe death
it is nostalgia of past history.
Deep in thoughts
I run for my green childhood.
A strange metastasis from remote guilts.
A rose upon rose piled up to form a signature mode.
