Poetry

A fugitive moon 
appeared, after the blaze of the sun, 
in a frozen standoff, 
died. 
 
My room was dappled 
with pale moonbeams shadows, 
nestled on the― 
blue walls. 
 
There was a constant drumbeat 
coming nearer. He wanted 
to quit. You cannot change 
the legacy of dark rooms. 
 
A manhunt must start 
for the thief who stole away 
all the voices of 
a departed soul.