Packed like sardines
your dreams,
break one by one in fine dew.
No great insult―
for the light not asked. The
seeds will burgeon only
in dark.
Igniting up the sky
by your burning
eyes. This was the gift of black thoughts.
A stray bullet
in the crowd of words
silences the body less soul.
Let me touch you
again. Who know when my
sensual fingers drop.
Why you will
speak now? I have gone deaf.