We are born,
to live for a while...

The irony in the life’s enthusiasm
is the cocoon of caterpillars’ transmutation...

We argue to learn.
Owing to our argument...

Why just the violin can speak the truth
when all the sounds are disingenuous...

All the world suffers
your discords till the music...

There are no bite marks on his apple.
His toys are still in their boxes...

A poem is the
iteration of every...

How wearing the patience of vultures is
in the desert of people's eyes...

We are Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot,
the “Waiting for the Anti-Christ” deluxe...

Like waves
that retreat and climb...

Why don’t you embrace me as me,
as who I am...

These weapons are made
with bad intents otherwise...