Poetry

Roping in, as if―
all my defeats, creating―
a tiara for a royal fall.

Being hurled
towards the enormous black hole,
chased by the sun.

Like an old thinker
I was putting myself in a
violent comet's pathway.

Not being a whole religion
why did I worship a walking stone?

How would I communicate
with my destiny?
I was not born a shining star.

An individual becomes,
an androgyne, unsure
to name the gender.

I am going to honour the talent.