Poetry

It does not make any sense 
to go beyond, where the road ends. 
 
He was searching the meaning 
of life. Moving out of comfort zone 
to Roman cave. 
 
Émigré to chessboard, 
he will stop pushing the game. 
But what about the demons― 
sitting on my chest, in cahoots with the nails? 
 
Somebody walks into assassin's 
trap. Somebody's bread does not 
reach the home. 
 
A child will ask, when my 
father will return? There was no answer. 
The tide has brought back 
the ashes.