Poetry

An executioner
gazes up into your eyes,
hotting up the gazella.

I am not an asylum seeker.
Was it an insult
to the animal, if I follow a sane path?

From my side of earth,
using different names, unflinchingly
I will speak for the bloody truth.

I never miss a tiger,
even with white coat and
brown eyes. Yellow stripes bring stasis.

Death arranges
the table. You pick up your dish.
O God, I wanted to be like you.

A stunning silence,
again pushes me towards you.
You always grin.