Poetry

No time was left
to call you to bring in
black rose to ward off
the ill omen.
Garden was burning.

Between the dense
smoke and golden flames,
blood moon was disappearing
like brisk pain.
Nothing matters now.

I had kissed your
hand only once, before
the door was shut. The
lips would count the poems
we didn't share.

Clouds come, clouds
go. The story ends
of rags to riches. The riches
of knives become blunt.
The Beekeeper was dead.