Poetry

Everytime you discover 
a new black hole; 
someone crosses the border 
and starts crying. 
 
Thread weaved in and out 
of tapestry. You were nailed 
to the wall, which never 
had any doors. 
 
Why were you not a mackintosh? 
You scripted strangely, talking 
of an open world. You smell 
a war between the poems- 
 
in a book. There was no ad hoc 
pain in groins. Your boney 
nose went to find the peat moss 
in the jungle of sandalwoods.