Poetry

Being me 
like a butterfly I cannot 
fold the wings. 
 
Why do we need to 
burn the orchard grass 
for an interim exit. 
 
My bête noire was me. 
I would not separate the 
statecraft from worship. 
 
Snubbing the trees, 
I want to climb tall to know, why 
were we using sarin and mustard. 
 
 
On the road to avatars, 
I won’t believe, that a released 
soul should come back. 
 
Robotic, someone was 
searching a lost forest.