Poetry

Sitting on the heap of debris 
I decided to move one day. 
The rain did not stop 
I was walking alone. 
 
It was a cruel time, my toes caught 
in bad thaw. I was working on a bawling 
theme of comatose words, a pottery of sorts. 
In fact the fear had not saved me. 
The sun did not stop 
I was thinking alone. 
 
A prosaic neighbourhood had acquired 
weapons, I was inattentive. My wounds 
always bled in hooting night. 
A flute it seems talked to me. 
The moon did not stop 
I was weeping alone. 
 
Terrible, terrible it was to abandon 
my home of luxury, to become a stone, 
to walk like a ghost with orphaned 
spirit. The voice without echo, murmuring. 
The ink did not stop 
I was writing alone.