Who am I to know the abstract silence
when you drink the moonlight all alone?
The black toes of a dying woman haunt me
in a stream of white shrouds.
A night of shattering perceptions, defaults and ignorance.
Time bomb was ticking.
It had been troubling me
the betrayals in night mothering a vegetable past.
A single finger defines the authority of future.
I traced the proud shadows of a god for,
a useless reference of illegible wisdom,
untold misery of green waves mirrored in sky.
For extracting death from life
at every step I knew the answer.
Dying was not a private thing.
The truth and the path would die.
How you dreaded the closed doors?
The explicit fear of drowning in beliefs
with brothers of sorrow and feet of clay.
