Poetry

My killing instincts
were intact.
On this bloody moon day―
I must talk to myself.

Just lips would move,
not the mind.

A mode of non-being
comes in fore. You watch the pansies dancing―
nonchalantly.

The air passes. White phosphorus
ignites on its own.

Memory alternates with pain.
It is not over.
We are still searching ourselves
in a mound of earth.