You Will Not Create Death

Was it the end of senseless
striptease
of the rainbow,
crawling towards the destruction?


Pathography hurts when
you look at the sea for a
bipolar thrust. There was
an absent father.

You cannot touch the wreath,
it burns in your hands. Where
will you place it when
it was raining words?

Ah, an accidental incest now
will spawn the half-siblings
in an archipelago of opinions.
There was no birthday celebrations.