Poetry

Looking back at self-portrait 
was bewitching. 
Self-abuse? Do you think 
we should start preparing for a 
holy murder? 
 
Like bad sex, you hold 
a blue thought and pick 
up a fight with a radical dialogue. 
If birds start leaving, what 
you plan to do with contemporary 
poetry. 
 
In a locked room you left 
your bloody footprints, sometime back. 
Now you are caught with a 
broken pen. Time was up. Hand 
over your lips and become mute.