Untitled …

Dreams are a fistful of glowing embers

burning the fate-lines on my palm;

I hold them dear

not to let them die of cold-


shoulders meant to rest a head

full of bruised imaginations,

carry coffins of hopes, 


fallen from a sky replete

with rollicking stars.


And the moon that swelled with pride

every night we conversed


seems to have suffered a memory loss

as it stares me blank,

its countenance oddly pale.