The kiss of the wasp
still burns on
my lips. I will ask
the love, what was your age?

The words suck
the essence of unspoken
grief, when life turns
around to say goodbye.

When would you breach
the dam and submerge the
desert of beautiful cacti?
They hold the sap of last journey.

Myriad stars compete
with me to know my
worth in dark. A rolling
death of swans has dried up the lake.

Here goes the killer
of songs. Do not start
bidding to live.