Poetry

I know that you don’t owe me,
and I shouldn’t ask for more;
I shouldn’t feel so let down,
all the times you don’t call.

I travel between joy and solitude
climbing the old loneliness
I only want to renew myself
like an old river’s quiet.

What I saw standing was a corpse.
My corpse. I knew then, death’s been my guest long back.

…The sweet fragrance becomes addictive
And I feel too drowsy,
That forces me to leave the moon behind…