Poetry

Eons ago, it snapped.
You don't fit into the mold.
Like onion peels, I am trying
to open myself
holding the secrets.

Flawless,
you alway had to invoke
the inner god and-
forgive yourself.

With the same
left foot, always leading you
to truth. That was not now.
Your belief was going up in flames.

Who was sleeping
in your bed, nude, like the
moonbeam, when I was not there
to undemand, the eternal sleep?