Poetry

Noway, I will ask 
the poem, to become stressed out, 
like the street, 
beaten and used again 
and again. 
 
Where do you want to go 
for a rendezvous with― 
unknown, in dark, 
groping for the unsung, 
unseen meaning? 
 
Time is worn out. You live 
on the fringes, unselling 
your ancient home, submerged, 
after the earthquake, 
triggered by ghosts of comments.