I cannot hear you
in my absence―
for a transient heartache.
Life gives you a dirty slap
and you write a poem
and this was not to happen overnight.
Looking at you straight
I discover myself
surrounded by glares.
From where the horse
was felled, a warrior makes
a hole in earth to reach
the flesh of time.
The flames take away the
gifts of death. Only the grey
ash smears the face of moon.