Poetry

Blue poppies were poised 
to meet the regret of thighs, 
mother of sins. 
 
No flesh now covers the eyes. 
A candle burns a green 
thumb. A silver bowl breaks, 
 
spilling the milk of nudes. Liars will tell 
the story of honour killing. 
We were tired of listening 
 
to ravens taking a flight. 
No one had seen the corpse. 
Only black bones will tell the truth. 
 
Have you seen the holocaust? 
It was inside my pen! my write!