Poetry

For image breaking
I exile myself
for one half-god
to lick my scars.

I have not touched
you even for ages―
in words.
The door knobs remained unturned.

I let go the dust. Time
was not ripe for me.
Still I have to
find my eternal muse.

I will strive, will
look around, to smell your―
presence. A warrior
always waits for the graceful exit.