Friends and foes
would have a scuffle
about, who was going to pluck the lymphoma.

A rainbow deflects,
from your eyes, making
me grasp for the breath.

Seeks apology, while
talking to trees, on boil
was the language, under the poverty line.

It does not make any sense.
The rain catcher was on trail
of a fugitive.

The sun. Always hiding
behind the veils of massacre.
I am not going to face the moon.