The eerie exodus of rage
from crashing domes
was the collective wisdom.
A complete thought
walked with me like a shadow.
The long journey for truth demanded clarity.
Life had not been fair,
path of death was endless.
The body poem from the sad and gentle portrait
crossed the line, became a sculpture.
My silver verse died.
I was courting a white-washed city.
The book of sorrow levitates,
Someday I will face the artist.
Sleepwalking I start.
Waking to your name, history was unmade.
My breath went heavier, and my steps emptier.
The metaphors didn’t kiss my innovations.
In the intermittent love, hate was the topic.
