Walking all up the stairs
right through the hills
Where does he go
when I
roll my eyes
and those flashing bees
start dancing ?
I fail to watch the path
those red eyes
like ashes of
burnt flies
tricks me
ever – forever .
It frowns dusk
when he asks
questions
tired and happy
so , I ask him
questions
that I ask him
at every dawn .
He never talks much
or , does he ?
may not I be
that one
with no ear to hear
the countdown
of days
those are ceasing to be .
His wet bloody pulms
and that old red bag
full of dust
he brings what down
for troubles to lurk
as light kisses
and so the dark .
He is weird , he is mad
and
his madness
its flesh and bone
like a clock
like a clay
making a way
of its own
I am ill , I am sick
death paddles near me
but
He must live
He must see
The new sun
he is planning to be .