Poezja

Gifting myself a new
hurt, though ephemeral, do
you feel my nearness
when I don't speak?

It doesn't work, your
patience with a deadpan face.
How would you talk to
butterflies, hollyhocks and
blackbirds?

You had tried to overrun
your own self by giving away
your eyes.Mind it, your
vision will still follow you
at burning pyre.

Weep, weep my poems
weep.The seduction was not
your gold, nor your enemies.
Then whom you are going to make
your god?

The handcuffs have no answer.