A pinch of pain, and
you hurl a poem
towards me.
The dilemma of undoing
a kiss of pen,
or lobbing a dagger
in the chest of moon persists.
I will never get the answer.
I would rather go
for a bath in the burning
river of your eyes.
Words do not convey
the real truth. What was behind
the gray dotage on your
withering face?
The voiceless silence would
let you dance on the flames?
O god I am waiting
on the heap of frail bones.