Poetry

He was not him, 
today the day ended with a boom, 
had walked aimlessly for hours 
in half fear and half hope. 
 
Window filters a new moon. It 
burns the pillow, wets the glass, 
had he kissed goodbye 
to the glass house? 
 
Tired of being a dwarf 
bridging the gap between hurts and animus. 
The truth was only known to the deported. 
 
Smoldering in the cauldron for years 
he was never ripe for the plunge; 
his kind refused to cling to straw for ever. 
 
Wanted inner shength to stand 
against the shots, to read the illegible words 
and pick up the dawn from falling stars.