A spring without leaves 
sleeps in a rock bed, 
its abstract spine hushing
innocent secrets to red blocked earth .
A seagull puts an emerald lid 
over coffin of your dreams, 
conspiring to sell it to a fish 
living inside a net, feeding water.
You feel like a saint then, 
because world for you is 
a half piece bread that was stolen 
from your pocket by a lazy wind.
To push back your hunger,  
you have gargled sea water in shower, 
while rage was nicking 
the back of your ear.
This mimicry of being alive 
fills vipers venom in every nook, 
so you forget words red with remembrance.
So you forget to look at your feet, 
to avoid tripping over pink roses.
Fluffy demons run around your eyes, 
and you fall in love with them:  
a crime scene so perfect, that 
your nails turn turmeric yellow 
while fixing the broken clocks and stories.
You, a guilty sinner daydreaming of a welcoming door made of wings, 
salutes the memory of a home .
The hand dripping sorrow 
splits light into three:
One for the god, one for the devil,
And the last for your lover.
You sprinkle tomorrow over your grief, 
while your lover in search of a song,
cuts you open and you smile at him 
like a duck with no more golden eggs .

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