Poetry

Was it a calculated
risk, when it was poetry,
 
falling like rains
on the parched lips
 
of yellowing pages.
Like the stones of a
 
grey mountain,
singing a hymn to blasts,
 
pick pocketing the sun?
I start reading the anatomy
 
of violence, ever, never
easy to understand.
 
Lots of red blotches
were spread on the tiny figures.