Poetry

Running without legs. 
A perfect apparition 
of sandhills. 
 
I cannot see far, but 
hear the synchronized call, 
of peacocks at midnight. 
 
Cannot sleep. The solemn 
mystery of dark is broken. 
In the cracks, I am 
discovering myself. 
 
Was it not an enough reason 
to abandon the search 
of peace and return to killing― 
 
the gods of clay and find 
the sanctity of emptiness, 
stripped to gravity?