Sometimes,
I go through thick pages leisurely
with time by my side,
drinking from yesterday’s morning dew
so when I meet the moon,
naked or otherwise;
I have gone through many lifetimes
to find one is consistent;

I write with my right hand
and words repeat themselves,
I’m clueless about the face of God,
under the tree by the lake,
mother drew me to grow old,
’cause I could shed any rawness
I ran away from the alter,
perhaps… perhaps grudges from my dreams
have found independence
and the colour black is glamour to me;

before my eyes could say goodbye to his,
the sun was already pulling me away.

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