Poetry

There was nothing to hide.
No jewels, no gold. I
wanted, to get the replica of afterlife.

Meet me in some moonless night.
I will show you a slice
of my bruises, offering it as
my panacea.

You were hurting yourself
invoking the baby god
on the night of lights.

It was hallucinating,
stabbing yourself in a
virtual suicide.

As the last rites started,
you got up from the funeral pyre
and walked away.