Poetry

I do not remain happy 
with noises of wisdom. 
Time was running out on me 
to know myself. 
 
No sensory cognizance. I 
touch you with my invisible 
hands, stroking the hair 
to dislodge the moon. 
 
Ashes lay strewn. River 
was overflowing from the 
banks of limbs. I will not 
come near the unfathomable 
 
depth of a chasm, between 
good and bad. Out of the bed 
of roses a snake uncoils. 
Praise the dark. It in night.