Poetry

A little death comes every day 
for the lost age. 
The fingertips write your name on 
ice, to burn in sun. 
and still, I will say it was good. 
 
Searing poverty of words 
scrambles for a suicide vest. 
No meaningless truth can save 
the kleptomaniac. After the demise 
of a sentence I can say, would 
 
not go for an award. The struggle 
to live in some pretentious 
sexuality of the curves was over. 
A trident will find 
the torso of revengeful god. 
 
Appearance was deceptive 
in entire race. The father of waves 
takes a bird's-eye view 
of the verses flowing from the 
icy lips of peaks.