Poetry

Talking to moon tonight,
in windless night.
You begin― to reflect― the past.

I pretend― I am gifting you
my poems, while bleeding―
from the eyes.

You will not read,
even once, the steaming tears of stones,
when the volcano―
spews its molten grief.

I am gifting you today, forever―
my summers.

Snow will rush into my veins.
I freeze at once, in memories
of the lone, stark naked, yew tree
laden with red berries.

Not poisonous, I am gifting you
my death.

Take me in your solitude!