Poetry

The horror of you in
lesser light, when you took
via dolorosa, to
meet yourself.

Moon was not waiting
for you in unkind sky. A
pinhole of dark would not send
some hope.

Something unsavory was a
way of unhappening,
tying the knot with the destiny
of doing nothing.

Losing my kernels in
desert of words. I took
the wrong path of liberation―
where no god lives.