Often under this red moon –
In between the phases of the midsummer

I do things unimaginable
Think – for myself
Not fed

What more,
Forgive me – for I have sinned

I write,
About lost stories
Dead poems and unwritten thoughts

(Cardinal conspiracies)

Tingling of the dead pages
Like he rustle of the browning leaves

There’s this haunt –                                             
Empty at 12 past midnight
Shinning with withering stars

Like my half smoked cigarette
And coffee stained notebooks

I sat,
Memoirs and maps
Seeped in unforgiveable actions

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