Poetry

Me and my pride,
me and my hurts.
Who are you, which you are not,
a verbless statement of nirvana?

No pain
no asking, narcissism.
A stream of unbecoming.
Eyes wide open
jaws tightly shut,
sitting in a corner, brooding,
brooding.
Now what?

A stunning duplicity,
a surrogate god
was running an empire.
Precisely polygamous
on the name of a latter saint
annihilating the third image.

The future demands its past,
its mode of becoming endosperm
in a sleeping leaf.