Poetry

Eclectically, do not say anything;
put a bullet in your head
and go to sleep.

I know what was coming
after the ballot. A heap of
abuses, for not maintaining the war.

The presence you can feel,
I am the native of this land― when
hurricane comes, you untie the shoes.

May be, wearing a dark suit,
the bartender comes and pours the
honey in your broken glasses.

The music must not stop. The
black spiders, with paired legs have
synchronized with myriapods.