Sick Mind Poem by menash mohan shrestha

The end is the beginning for her.
When she lost the war.
Against her own ghost.
She's left bled through the edge of scar.
Red in her eyes. Fire in her soul.
With empty rifle, she teases the trigger with broken finger.
Time sikens her, an intrinsic illness.
Her head suffers the symptoms. Her body feigns a cure.
To taste the salt in her tears.
When the rivulets met her lips.
She extends her tongue.
Like the serpentine, crazy for the volatiles in the ambient.
To decipher the paradox she search for the words.
And finally borrows from her ghost dwelling in her head.
The end was always there.
We only pretended we could negotiate.
The distances between when and if.
She answers her own questions.
In gassy stutters and apathetic smirks.
It has already happened and will again.
The end was always there.
She just found it first.