I get you― earnestly.
In my short poems,
in binge reading, of your eyes.
The tears of hills will not go waste.
Lamb by lamb, you
search the pink contusions
becoming nebulous images.
The fear of black waters
will always chase you under
moonlight.
And the night releases
my pain. Iris and muse become
one. Devastated stings
go back home.
You will not commit,
will not offer the grief of veil,
which would not hide the face.