Masters

Masters 

Poem

Wrinkles are deep 

They are deep seated traumas 

Fading from the sights

Is your brave condemnation

Of years passed by 

Without a sincere apology

Waiting behind the doors

Latching the doors 

With a wood 

I heard sound 

From the streets, neighbours and you

I open the door 

I received the package 

Wrapped gold in a delicate paper box 

I thought it was chocolate but it was gold

I have no idea how to spend it except keeping it in a cabinet 

You are masters 

Masters of love 

Telling stories of obscene 

Unseen from this tree 

The landscape being treated with 

Poisonous fog