poems with no names

iv

ø

I have no voice. 

my tongue had wilted

in the bleached peculiarity,

in the nature of people. 

I have no audience

who would clap 

to the rhythm of my heartbeat

but to the adagio of my demise.

But I have, 

the sympathy of a pristine soul 

who would cry, tears. 

Tears, that would cleanse the red in me.