Poetry

Weird,
your hidden contours,
as true to yourself,
from unseen to seen.

Like a phoenix,
you are supposed to write
your own epitaph,
before jumping on a funeral pyre.

The bald eagles
like simple truth, give
you pain and hurts. I write
a poem for you― then
delete it.

A transitional encounter.
One of us was lying. There
was no eye of the moon.

In search of the silver bullets
to kill the werewolves
of our life.