Poetry

Your thin white skin spreads
on the front. The blue
veins have become the strings,
annexing my peninsula.

You had said, it was a
bit of stretch, to cover the
lies of a fading sun,
for a delayed penitence.

Living water will bring clouds
to fill in the lakes of grief.
One day the lilies will grow-
meet in the air, for sombody's sake.

The black moon was still
raw. All the weeds had
become snakes. I start
hating this season of mating.