Poetry

Walking with death 
talking poetica. 
Living without walls 
and firing squad. 
 
While new culture was 
drowning on steps of 
dots and bass voices. 
The blood on hands. 
 
Sometimes you are going 
nowhere in a pathless 
city. Back to back setting 
ablaze bazaar of black gods. 
 
Between the veils lies 
the trauma of man. I 
step out from the underside of 
hymns. Cannot sleep in temple.