Poetry

After sitting in dark
through the black smiles,
you cannot stand the light.
 
The bloodshed, inclusive
of measuring the purity of intent,
celebrating the arrival―
 
and departure, ignoring the passage.
The road smells the spot, and feeds the rags.
 
These leaps and bounds
land you at the dead end. No trees
no leaves. Where you will go now?
 
How you hate yourself, now
beheading the roses. The cloud forest, where
you will find a new carnivore.