Poetry

Unstable like a mercury
drop, when you hold
a pen, hiding your
icy thoughts.

Like an archer, ready
to abandon the bow, without
shooting at the target.

The bull's eye was a
blue rose, sitting in the dark
niche, afraid of light.

In synesthesia, of
nights assault, you fume
and sizzle, when the dew
drops hit you.

You will not give the name
of slayer, who killed you with a smile.