Living the moment
without participation...

Afraid to ask, the white
fingers, to write a name on black paper...

In fending off, the questions,
after mutilation...

A decapitated
thought, writes a new scribble...

While I limp,
a schizo runs parallel with the moon...

It was a turf war.
The moon was booby-trapped...

Like runaway water
you run to meet your lover...

Knife for knife.
Shadows were chasing...

The flames had
not reached the sun. Moon...

The depression,
in purple moon...

The dust blends with
the humid specks...

The single purple moon
was cruising non-chalantly...