Poetry

A method cuts you out―
in hunger pangs,
to set you free from bonding
of four― leaf clover, or word.

Love has become a
one way pain, without libido―
in want of a fairy ring.
The maternal cost was high.

Drifting between the
black sea and dead sperms,
you want to raise a
new cult.

The religions betray.
Everything was marketed with
thumbed scripts.
Gods were threat to sane hymns.

I am trying to carve
a face, from the rocks, not
animal, not angel.