Poetry

Like burning coals on the tongue 
the words smoulder the ardour. 
I cannot pursue a thought of untruth 
for sake of remainin alive. 
 
The water hole is dry, we turn back 
from poetry and greens, 
heading towards onother cul-de-sac. 
A fear mocks at the face. 
About being a human failure preparing 
to admit the defeat. 
Despair will decide the path! 
 
I always adored a struggle for reality 
calmly choosing the self-denial. 
Secretly I weave a memory of moon rise 
in pitch darkness.