This room is a coffin.Empty hearts. Growing nails. Withering flowers. There stands a statue above the coffin.A home. Similar to other homes.We all are pretendersunless we die. Statue has a broken brain.It talks often. To the dead peoplematerials are important. Senescence. A big word for a small coffin.The air gets heavy. Partial cries.Mourning ends. A … Continue reading Senescence

I wake up and write a poem to you.Like infants wait for their mother's lapafter a long sleep. This poem begins with a whisper,your numb ears lose the words of my silencemy voice travels through the airstriking the clock at the wall.It's midnight.The day has been changed.The stanza too. In the middle of this poemI … Continue reading In this poem we meet