Poetry

It tumbles down. The real. 
Heels start hurting. 
 
Once upon a night, there 
was a red moon, which used to hang 
on your head and I 
would watch something beyond. 
 
No outburst of profanity 
will take place, when you were 
dissecting a triangle― 
 
of rainbows. I will not 
assemble the waist of a tall tree 
after the fruit fall. 
 
Gone with the snow, my 
temple, my god. I am now 
waiting for the looters of rings.