Poetry

The art of losing the
core-hurts, standing in deepest
mood.
You want to see, what your
prefrontal cortex thinks.

The suffering: the debris
fall on the eyes.
Vast Greenland melts.
The terror strikes. You
inherit the barren land.

I start talking with the
spirits. In the shoe box, lies the
past. The water was rising
in eyes. The scent of moon
sometimes misses the earth.

The butterflies, sometimes
come, declare the deadline
for garden prayers.