Poetry

With unease, I follow
the terror on terrace.
The moon was sauntering on the spiky grill.

Fugitive words. I wanted
to take them home. It was
a tipping pain.

That was a brazen assault
in my privacy. Leave me
alone with my roses―

I wanted to talk to them
for a while, before I climb
the rainbow to become artless.

The muse sometimes leaves
me behind. The body gives in,
fighting off the daydreams.