Drift Wood

This politics of poverty
erupts again,
entrapped in arcane script.
A code of words will find
the fault lines.

Coerced to wait in a
black book, you start forgetting
the rules of game. It hits you
when you were writing
a poem.

At the end of the arguments
a lynx-eyed moon walks
on the lake of tears, constructing
a dam of bread, for
a broken promise.