We sit in the smoke of silence,

To gather another round of golden pitfall,

In the liquid flow, there’s crack— between

our voices, climbing by the whispers—

hushed down our street life, upward,

downward, the music rolls down.

There’s one, saunter lazily in yellow house

Cloud move over his eyes, he shuts down

the next window— flaring up with rage,

Death kiss upon his nose, so the grey

town disappears in shadow— he laughs

whisking down the street from.

She huddles between the staircase,

The last whistle blows out there,

In the silent room, she stretch out her arms

in a flatbed, the earth gives out beneath

her feet, from freezing to rock again,

She locked her eyes with him.

“Death,” this is what they fear—

The music died in the forlorn night,

They clutch to hush while drifting away.

The desires burn in our deadly gaze,

“Be my muse,” before the world changes.

— 30th August, 2024.