Not a dog day―
after snapping. In
fatigues, you get a parole
to start sowing sunflowers.
...
Gold fringed, the hood
strikes. You are bound
to throne.
...
Widening the scope
you want to remain
at center stage.
...
Shredding begins.
One by one all the leaves fall, like disrobing.
The words hang around, the naked soul.
...
Yes it would remain
incomplete, my story―
my poem.
...
Returning to the ragpicker
like a lone fly
of love triangle, said― were you
writing a letter to confess your love?
...
The ethical dilemma,
and chaste abscenity,
were the game changers.
...
Not confessional.
Without reading the body
there was no room.
...