In troubled times
he just walked away...

While writing a poem
I make a blood hole...

Prisoner of praise
was slave of anger...

A fake sanity with its wisdom
enlarges the space between the coarse...

I don't fake the pain
pain was me...

That fleeting incandescence
was branded witch...

It was a failed attempt
to employ the eternity...

Creeping in waking night
was fear of fear...

Hunger comes back like a dagger
on face. With iris and fingerprints...

Perfect bridges for a fading light
taking you to dark caves...

An unusual melody,
a reticent antiquarian...

Was that a non-devil effort
to hide the language...