Shifting Floors

A hand without fingers
draws a self-portrait.
Faceless, only eyes glaring
like bucketfull of burning coals.

Was it not enough to call ‘wolf’?
The pain scorches the compound
where the blood of innocent flowed
because somebody was burning woods.

The shifting continues in the ocean
of grief, but the kelp
remains there, cannot be eased out.
Even the violence makes the water blue.

You were inhaling the white
gowned death every day. A
moonlit landscape mourns
for the living on earth.