Poetry

Fear of staying in sidelines,
as a waning voice,
and falling in a drain.
 
You stand at the door of light,
and see the truth― boundaries
crumpling.
 
Afraid of transmission of lies,
interfacing long threads
of darkness.
 
It was extraneous, A
lot of heat generated by the
conversions. The doorkeeper remains the same.
 
The wisdom goes with
a begging bowl. Spirit was to
become an incomplete text.