Till when
you ask, will your anger consume every bit of you
till the turn of the tide
that has washed our feet, twice, with foam on their edges
till you stop telling me that you loved me once
in the name of lies and mirrors that should have been broken
long before they were put up
to face the universe
till when, till you realize
the laughs behind you are about you
the stare, the snare, the sniping head
of a tiger in disguise that blesses itself
with an apple, a gun, a gab
enough to leave behind openess
No comments:
Post a Comment