Poetry

I have not arrived
as yet, to meet myself.
Existence betrays.

After the shock, I
want to ask a question
in trembling voice "Why".

Where the flesh ends
at the edge of bones,
eyes will speak.

Unthinking, I
pick a rose, to prick
my fingers. That was
the truth.

Dying was easier,
than to live. Still I want
to stay back to see
the miracle.