Poetry

Dismembering the wreath, 
he went on celebrating his own demise. 
Shadow had become a white shroud. 
 
He was spitting blood, when slugs, 
hit him from behind. 
No body remembered his name 
 
We had been dividing the roofs. 
My moon and my sky. 
I feel my eyes have turned into marbles. 
 
Castaway I float on conscience, with 
blemishes, doomed muscle. 
Sun and water were baffled. 
Raged against the invisible walls 
I was breaking my knuckles. 
 
No body knows, who will outbid 
whon. I am lying low, 
to rise one day 
like sphinx, 
on the breast of flames.