Still I am looking
at the path, from where you
disappeared.

In void between
living and dead, leaving no
memory to drape.

The dust will recall
the weight of footfalls in
air to bleed stones.

I'm afraid
We're going to isolate
Even further than we are

If we don't get a grip
On this sinking ship
Going down for the third

Being all I, me, mine
Where we spend our time
Inside our solitary rooms

This constant creep of self
Will soon be our death
If we keep humming this crazy tune

Our social butterfly
Has up and died
Cut off in mid-bloom

The once abundant life
Took to flight
With nothing much to do

But to isolate
I'm afraid
Even further than we are

With no flotation devices left
On this sinking ship
Going down for the third

Why did I go
for you at the end of road?
Copper weeps.

Like air hugging
you, smelling your wet
scented hairs.

Poverty was a gift
of god. You were very
rich. Strange!

What you will
wear at the death of moon?
sun was red.

Signing on the
skin of dying butterfly,
what you wanted to say?

Put off the lamp.