Poetry

The tears have washed my sins.
Taming the dead,
I start a vivisection
of myths.

I take an impromptu walk,
go inside my weaker self,
abandon the pretention
and come face to face with the fear.

No portrait, no symbol,
no map was needed.
I was going to open a locked attic
to liberate the imprisoned past.

O colossus,
O my golden bird,
my sun baked grief has ripened
in ruins of desires. I am free.