Becoming numb to poverty―
in terror mode,
you fluster and behave sensibly.

The anonymous entry
of a walking grief―
covers the violence of words.

Your sun burns without
giving light. You climb your
poem to find the answer.

The eyes shut. You feel
the assault of night. There was
no undying love between the strangers.

The conversation ignites
the sparks. Carbon spreads
on your shirt. The red circle
blunts the knife.

You cannot kill yourself.