Poetry

This politics of poverty 
erupts again, 
entrapped in arcane script. 
A code of words will find 
the fault lines. 
 
Coerced to wait in a 
black book, you start forgetting 
the rules of game. It hits you 
when you were writing 
a poem. 
 
At the end of the arguments 
a lynx eyed moon walks 
on the lake of tears, constructing 
a dam of bread, for 
a broken promise.