Poetry

The fumbling picks up. 
The sixth sense 
was failing. 
 
A mother weeps 
for the unborn child. 
You were still ogling the peaks. 
 
Were you true to yourself 
in the dark, when the 
moon was away? 
 
I had lost the burning 
coals, after the 
rains came. 
 
The dark mine, where 
they were shot, for 
picking up the lightning.