Poetry

When night will not speak 
and shoes will float on the water; 
legs of truth will not move. 
 
Latched to absence 
unreasons held the hands of time. 
I stopped believing in myself. 
 
The genome had come in a bottle. 
when the virgin son was killed in a raid. 
The mausoleum will not accept the shroud. 
 
The priest will pay the moon, 
for the price of the nightly stings. 
Now the death will kill the clouds of bees. 
 
And the green door shuts the house 
of light. Moonlight has gone missing. 
We will have to find the lips of dark.