Poetry

It was a basic instinct.
You wanted to become something-
on unstable legs, hijacking my dreams
for treason.

Like an amputee-
you were hobbling around
to find the door of gold
in the jungle of twists and breaches.

Only a fathom depth
you need to hide your cadaver
of past sins.

Scattering your seeds in vain
all-night, the dawn was away,
still waiting on the wings of tomorrow.

The mourners with their quivering
lips cannot sing an elegy.