Unbecoming Of The Poem

The fat moon
rises, when the bland earth
gives a call.
 
Like the black magic
of depression, in fall,
overwhelming the silence.
 
Of not becoming, what
you wished me to be,
or not to be.
 
A conflict always,
climbs the wall to overlook,
the pain of separation.
 
This winter, I am not
going to witness, the death
of night birds.