Poetry

Alter ego,
you were my broken
mirror.
From where do we start
watching crescent moon?

Where the poet
will go in search of ink,
to reshape the words of solace,
living out of truth?

O, incredible! Your
maiden steps had faulted
to reach the vanity
of glittering heights.

How will you fill in
the blanks, blindfolded?
Sun had already gone down.