Poetry

It was otherness which bothered me: 
nothing happened otherwise. 
Brisk and upright 
He failed penultimately. 
 
I still hear the footfalls 
of circumstances, 
of retreated sounds. 
 
The hidden fire lights up 
I squirm in pain. 
The canopy of false rumors 
falls on dirty road. 
 
His gangrene was evident; 
still he walked with a glow, 
all alone, but listening to howling 
and surveying the floods of tears. 
 
A single argument 
lifts the tanned skin 
displeases the mob 
and abandons the search.