Copper-brown

I was always looking

at your face.

One of trinity,

the fallen spirit, that

did't bore any number?

A visible mark

betrays the flying grief

of a pagan.

Between the cacti,

desert was blooming. No

water, no river in the eyes.

The smoke was

rising, in all its viciousness.

The panic was writ large on the face of moon.

How far was the death

camp of unwanted dreams?

I am not bone, I was not flesh.