Poetry

The art of losing the 
core-hurts, standing in deepest 
mood. 
You want to see, what your 
prefrontal cortex thinks. 
 
The suffering: the debris 
fall on the eyes. 
Vast Greenland melts. 
The terror strikes. You 
inherit the barren land. 
 
I start talking with the 
spirits. In the shoe box, lies the 
past. The water was rising 
in eyes. The scent of moon 
sometimes misses the earth. 
 
The butterflies, sometimes 
come, declare the deadline 
for garden prayers.