Poetry

One day you will arrive.
Night will enter in your pores,
in your bones,
like a baby trapped in a borewell,
crying, striking,
thumping.

On each table, salt moaned
for a classical taste.
A pink moon was smothered
in a virgin bed.
Death walked in a sensual style.

A black discharge continued
from the areolae.
Botox failed to uplift
the sagging breasts.
A thallium capsule broke on tongue.

There was no suicide note.