opaque time in my sandglass
and carved dreams on the walls.
an amorphous ghost whispers tales,
shuts the doors and chants in tolls.

I sit on my wooden swing,
kissing a half of dress,
painted with wine and tears of mud,
of the one, that has never come.

flowers of burnt poetry
struggle to blossom on my arms
and nude rain drops
fall to feed my hungry eyes.

and I wait....