Poetry

I again went for the goldfish. 
 
One day I took you, in the 
night sky, rubbing on the 
sea, under an ebony moon. 
 
The roasted munching in 
fabricated letters for 
the orgiastic drill. 
 
Why one always becomes 
sadistic in self- torture, 
the drifting among tombs- 
 
of broken words, in our 
maligned ink? The clear 
path suddenly becomes invisible. 
 
I again hear the sobbing of 
a trembling ghost of past.