PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

For the dream slaves 
the incense has become a moon 
for the alchemic effect of tear’s stain 
in erotic war. 

Ask a mooner, 
will he bring her to bed 
for a song to measure the cantus 
between flight of strings in midnight? 

The small bruises of stars 
were playing under the lemon tree 
in sinking clouds. You must know 
the richness of poverty at night. 

This was the theme to play, 
it was enough to have walked on golden 
leaves of November, while I was collecting 
the false truths of life.