Poetry

Plurality of the sin 
slids across the sludge 
of cheating - 
on the cohabitation of virtue. 
 
Encountering myself in mirror, 
under the spell of repetition? 
Discovering yourself - 
can you predict your end? 
 
 
Inheriting the long night - 
I cannot act for me. The flesh 
seeks the curved breast of 
unspoken grief. I wouldn't become ruthless - 
 
to smell the gift of parting kiss, 
tossing the landscape aside.