Cold Demeanor

The last strings are pulled

Much to the audiences’ despair

The puppet show is over

In overtures and epitaphs

Wilted flowers wistfully lay

Piercing the skin into the flesh

The nocturnal yearns of years

Untouched beneath the stairs

Dwindling shadows caressing

The restless hours of longing  

Lullabies

The poet has risen today to

Answer his tarred lungs

Gasping for air and scent

Of the woman who has

Slithered into the veins

Of sleep-deriding eyes,

Differentiated him – molecule

By molecule

Jarred by the gusty wind

The rusty chandelier creaked

And curled curtains let

The wavering streetlight in

To forms misshapen mounds

Of colours on his face

Colours colder than the winter’s

Breath

The silting snow reached

Out to frosted window panes

Only to witness the leftovers

Of the synthetic day;

The poet’s half eaten eyes

Shone in the flickering light

Becoming one with the

Nakedness of the night