Poetry

The questions hang like skin tags. 
A broken mirror, stabs 
during birth of time. 
 
We have got to do it, save it 
in its infancy, before it is submerged 
along with the temple of fake gods: - 
 
before it is plagiarized by the 
polity. The wives were fattening 
on art of running the state 
 
from behind the curtains. Would 
you like to sign on my skin? 
Your death wish? I am washing 
 
my sins today. It is bit cold 
here in the blue lake of tears. Now 
you can hold my arm for final plunge.