Poetry

I will be kissing in proxy― 
at the dark side of 
the moon, where my twin crashed. 
 
The cracks had emerged 
in the fiery zone― the flames 
reaching the zenith of blue, killer sky. 
 
A tamed hematoma, 
speaks― for the ripped open brain. 
There was nobody left to be whole. 
 
Survivors were the gift 
of miracle. A saint starts 
abusing the stars. 
 
The god’s temple lies― 
in ruins, buried under the sand, 
debris and the dead faith.