Poetry

Blunt and bold were
the wet spots.
You bleed like me.
 
The seizure takes hold
of millions thoughts.
My sins are walking with me.
 
No annihilation of
the flesh. I was meeting
the spirits.
 
The face becomes pure
gold, when you
start burning the issues.
 
The years had survived
in slumber.
Death will not come to the hanged man.