All that was once meaningful
and destined, has lost all meaning...

Gather my harvest,
then burn the dry field...

If I could wish for a poem
that could make you sob...

Gasping cautiously
yet not everyone survived...

Nothing waits to be roofed,
a leader of skills attempts...

Come caress your love on my skin,
comb these prolonged kisses...

I have found
God...

Speak to me
of the Autumn yellow stories...

I'm a current of seasons,
a loose routine of uncertain...

Two zero & four-
gone in vain...

Not in the towns of the sun
where people chatter and constellate...

I won't ask why the land woke up barren
after a season of suns...