Poetry

As it appears―
as if nothing stops you and
the spring will ask the direction.
Like a bipolar, I will swing
between moon and sun.

It may not sit true with me
like a lethal drop in an empty cup!

I don't know, what I think
in dual state of mind. Time stretches.
As if involuntarily my―
hands start shaking.

Not yet. It was my wound.
I have to carry my ship down
the river. In hour of ending
would you come to write―
the ascending pain?

Perfection incomplete. There is
voiceless silence.