How Pitiful Could It Any Be? Poem by Amer Jag

Strange fingers
drew over the dirt of my body
little angels,
some breath wondered
across my chests
silently,
I felt the sky raining under my soul.
How pitiful could it any be?

Flexed spirit underneath eyelashes
trembled with the sound of breaks,
suddenly silence started its dance
within the dropp of dew -
what is this place?
Hows its name?

Strange fingers, digged underneath my skin
little peace of dazzling flame,
sound of spit began the time of
darkness.
how pitiful could it any be?