Poetry

Under siege, 
tied to a bomb- 
you were talking to yourself. 
 
The violence inside you 
had beaten you mercilessly. 
 
The text has dried up. 
Steal a glance- 
 
and find out the blood spots 
on the Mars, the god of war. 
 
The sound in the vase, was becoming louder 
of coins. 
 
Now you will walk- 
on my dead body.