Poetry

It was not,
just a kiss of a zodiac sign.
You had become a stranger
between fight and flight.

The trick was capricious.
Albeit, a calligraphy
on a bare tree, engrafting
your name which keeps
on growing with broadening trunk.

You watch the sky
at night and start a monologue.
The stars were expanding,
filled with grief. The
despair of going back home
in dark.