A Keyhole Surgery

Sometimes, I want to write 
a folk poem, without name. 

Anonymously, you want to 
postpone the commitment 
to accept the murder 
of yourself, 
the griever. 

The towering belief― 
that there were skeletons 
on the grains, as the words 
become verses. 

A snowy virgin 
will take a knife, to bring 
down the stars 
when you sing centuries 
of love.