Turns me on
I will write a poem.
Delirious moon had
To live again, I
will not come after dying for
There was thunder in the hut
teeth clattered under the ground.
Handcuffed you walk in inequality
to qualify for hanging till dead.
the words will be buried
in tongue like nails.
the hunt begins after sunset
under cracked moon, blindfolded clouds
start visiting volitionlessly:
Young days start with a nostalgia
for a lost freedom
Anxiety was the prime suspect.
A thirsty town fails, harvesting the moon,
and turns into a vast lake of tears.
They were fighting for their right to remain
poor and hungry. It was a fractured
A dumb copy of me.
You were done for.
Sometimes the design goes awry.
Beyond the gaze there is a time zone
of rumored agitation
when you cannot sleep.
You open your eyes quietly to complain.
of my pain and joy.