Poetry

In asci we stand like 
spores in a floating pain 
in trepidation of something 
evil. 
 
It was a lily pond. 
The water brings a dead city 
on lotus leaves. I will 
become crazy for small deviations. 
 
The body bags are full of 
remains. You know everything 
before hand, from alphabet 
to full script. 
 
In my own way I will 
decipher the stream of 
death’s language. A part 
of your face floats nearby. 
 
The uncollected legs were 
searching the flame of sorrow 
without digging a hole.