Poetry

At cultural opening of thin
layers of faith & consciousness,
a new breed of angels was
romping on our souls.
I suffered again for tiny spaces
between the thoughts.
Death cannot be intrusive.
It waits at the door of light.
The show will start when truth dies.

I go again for the reality of anticlimax,
the anxiety of endless flights into fantasies,
the hallucinations of falling trees.
Give me some space to pedal
the silken smoke of dark truths.

There was fire in my heart
and eternal burning
of a lake. I cared for tears,
the eerie memories.
The age-old pain of seeking
the liberation from twisted symbols,
simple measures of
finding a passage to unknown.