Poetry

The overhead throng of starry starry lights
of the shopping mall are burning
through the layers of air-conditioned air,
and that boy goes on scrubbing with a cloth
the side glasses of the BMW
which was up for sale.He was scrubbing clean
his wishes dreams anger opportunism
and the color of his failures.
And right on the opposite side
sitting in a coffee shop
I was unable to drinkthis bleak black coffee long gone cold.


Getting drenched in this endless death shower
I felt there is nothing heroic
about being alive or to die.