Sunday Poetry Special By Ali Shaida

The flying greed

When my wounds cry, It is like a scary rainfall Pouring my secrets out, And the winds mercilessly Blowing them around Killing my breaths And trimming my nerves, The fall gets wild Beyond the season's whisper, And my eyes reading again The splashed words From my book of wails, By their glamorous ache My tears shine Like those of dew drops, And blossoms, As if praying in a faded tone, Let this book be renamed, Let the book of spring be opened, Let this snow melt in silent gushes, Let the sun descend upon this wrath, Let the moon kiss my gravestone, Till my sacred scars would drain , Those eternal flames of hell.....

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