Stoking fire
I come back to moon.
What if a whiff of nature
topples my poem in afternoon
of wilting roses?

The genre is spoiled.
You want to drink moonlight
in dark, but water
remains neutral.

An unreturned kiss
of believing in yourself,
takes a big toll. Dreaming sky
in cloudless days was
a casualty.

Why do you talk
without words? The prophecy
of a hollow bust comes
true. You become your own enemy.

After war there is a war.
Can you find peace in my verse?