Where death
and exotica meet...

Your hands tremble,
when you accept...

Over the lake
moon was hounded out...

Messengers are out,
dynasty strikes...

All the wayward words
mock me for inadequacy...

Confessional truth
is not my aggressive ego...

Sometimes, I want to write
a folk poem, without name...

Buried at sea
the dead man lives, as if a blood...

Turning me blue
blithe thoughts had come like snakes...

It was oneness,
which brought my poetry...

Nothing left to do
anything today...

The brown dust?
floats, while reading...