Nonagonal Ingthamtha Haiku

and Instantaneous Impressions of Life on a
Chilly Winter Morning When the Universe is
Conspiring to Kick You Out of Your Bed
Because You Got to Earn a Fucking Livelihood

November Fog by Axel Kuhlmann, from Public Domain Pictures

I
Misty morning blues
Thick layers of air—no view,
Goodbyes see no hearts

II
Inside heavy clothes
No one sees the hidden loots
The society’s shits

III
Bombs, bullets and blood
Explosion, firing, flowing
God got a big ass

IV
Dewdrops on the grass
Soft smell from the shrubs so fresh
Dry lips, harder kiss

V
The lightest fog covers
A drib quite enough to wet
Cold flowers, cold leaves

VI
How would it taste like?
Maybe only the Death knows
Living’s too busy.

VII
Room heater, Old Monk
Pork, spinach, and etc;
Hei, and etc

VIII
It’s all relative
Warm hands on flesh that’s no warm
Cold hands, dead feelings.

IX
We have lived our dreams
When the universe conspires
Time stops; memories.

Winter Seasons by George Hodan. from Public Domain Pictures