Poetry

The moon scrambles on 
the fragrance of the trees 
I think of humility & grace. 
think of the secret of death, 
honey of life and survive 
by holding the poems. 
I will ask myself 
not to invent the echo of tomorrow. 
 
In my aloneness 
I watch the dancing of words, 
the white tract of thoughts 
without thinking. There are 
no holes in heart, still the 
numbers build the nest. 
The abstract arguments of depression. 
Lull before the explosive creation. 
 
Movement of grief 
is footfall in dark night. 
We always blamed the self image 
without perfecting our contents. 
Liberating self from 
bare hands was the theme. 
We could bring the screaming moon 
to rest upon our souls.