Poetry

There was a sharp rise 
of indecent things. On the 
rocks you left my name 
without flowers. 
 
Make a heap of all 
the gifts of life and griefs and 
start a bonfire. No message 
is going to come. 
 
Let us live in separate bowls 
of soup. Time had swept 
them clean for a murder. 
 
One day the alien god will 
alight from the sins, 
to alter the numbers. 
 
The mudslide of untruths 
will scupper your house 
made of paper and pen.