The senile dust,
which rises between us,
makes me sick.

I cannot stand
the mood swings of
aging moon.

This play of light
and dark in equinox,
confuses the waiting
dawn.

Love stings.
And fog covers, the aura
of falling leaves― green
yellow and red. I survive
the quake.

A tiff burns the fingers.
I will not hold the pen.
The blank paper shivers.
Who will write the
wet poem?