Poetry

How much I know me,
I will ask you one day.

That was a symbolic
wish, if you were on moon
to celebrate your own death,
at the hands of unknown.

The deepest mystery was,
why must you live.

This was a culture of thriving with
make-ups. If you recite
a truth, you become ugly.

Hunted by lymphs and
nodes you cannot walk straight.
You turn back, when
the time of departure comes.

Hail the dead, who
licks the rock-salt in end.

Nothing else was real.