Poetry

Name was more beautiful than the face. 
It was charisma of night. 
A dream without the eyes. 
 
Laughing skull on the road 
opens a wound, 
and dying footprints were neither consenting 
nor refusing. 
 
A faticity clamps the flow of blood, 
I was counting the stitches, 
somewhere the pain was reappearing. 
 
Interpersonal hate had a story to tell: 
greed, anger and bullets. 
The legs were chopped off from truth. 
He was not faithful to sun. 
 
In my heart lies a trapped river. 
Its history is old, its water was humble. 
Uncontaminated was the knock on the door 
to a melting of white snow.